If These Wings Could Fly
by prosemeds
Summary: Always AU. Not much has changed in a year from the shooting. He still loves her. She's still looking the other way. Only now there's a lie and there's a secret. No cemetery. No gunshot. Just a soul lost. Pinned. Waiting. Not much has changed a year from when she almost died - but how the tables turn.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Post Headhunters. Part One (Castle's Perspective) and Part Two (Beckett's Perspective) equivalent to a two parter arc (AU of Undead Again and Always). Fic complete with random updates.

* * *

"Lights go down,

In the moment

We're lost and found

I just wanna be by your side,

If these wings could fly."

\- Birdy

* * *

 **Part One: Collapsed**

Consciousness.

It's never been more horrifying.

The pain, the weight pressed upon him, that's bad. The clouded air, too polluted with dust and dirt to breathe, that's also bad.

What gets Castle the most has to be the darkness. No matter how hard he focuses his eyes no light avails the new endless sea of black before him. He's drowning in it with no one around to even know, no attempts to spare his soul. A scream to draw out attention seems the direction to go until the force he exerts going to try exceeds the tolerance for the pain.

Surely by now, however long it's been, someone has to know he's missing.

Memory serves him poorly as far as time though, the pressure and exhaustion consuming the ability to construct any thought. His position permits only one arm to move and obviously desperate, he reaches for his phone to discover, as he had guessed, it is indeed crushed.

He has to try everything…anything. Here, wherever that may be now, there can't possibly be a useless idea to entertain.

Trying to wiggle free he manages the other arm loose and one of his legs with some strain, but pulling upward the bite of concrete over his other leg elicits a yelp from deep within, now aware of how wedged it actually is.

Shitty air supply. Definitive darkness. Pinned. Everything...collapsed.

But it could be worse, right?

 ** _Three Days Earlier_**

It's been days, weeks, but it sure seems longer as the phone refuses to ring. Aside from the occasional call from his mother or Alexis, none come from the precinct.

From Beckett, rather.

Things have been…well. Is there a clean-cut word to describe the last few weeks of tension between them? He's certain any choice will just belittle the wound severing their entire relationship…whatever that relationship may be. Things have been _rough_ , if he'll be kind. He's still silent though. No, he's not planning to tell her why, why his arm is extending out and away from him wielding a cane to keep her at the end of the tip, far from reach. He doesn't need to tell her why. She knows why.

Whether she accepts it or not, she knows exactly why he's pulling away.

So he won't be telling her anytime soon, but the worst part comes with flashing signs pointed right at his heart…because he loves her. Even amidst all this chaos between them, he does, but now seriously entertains his mother's thought before. Love really isn't a switch. How can he continue on like this–unless he allows his feelings to completely settle and dissolve out in the water? It's always a question of time, really. If he can withstand the burden in waiting for change, or if he can bear to work beside her keeping in mind the greater cause, then maybe he'll be okay.

It's a question of time, and then a lot of convincing himself that he can actually do it. A _lot_ of convincing.

Although that hasn't been enough, it seems. They haven't talked since the case with Slaughter, and with the days spent in silence he doesn't know when they will. It's been two weeks at least, nearly three if he's truly counting. In acceptance, he doesn't expect her to get in touch. But, she does.

It's just one missed call she leaves while he's off showering, the single attempt to contact him a clear effort to maintain her own kind of distance. No eagerness, no urgency to beckon him to the scene. She follows up with a short text, reinforcing the plain courtesy of communicating with him.

 _New case. If you're coming out, call me or Esposito._

Simple. Professional. No hint of something more, or anything personal whatsoever. He reads it over, walking out to the kitchen in search for his caffeine dose already bubbling into the pot, and none of it surprises him. After a minute to turn away he reads it again while taking that first sip of his coffee, the normally pleasant warmth not quite finding its way down his throat as it should – a singeing, overloaded spoonful inching towards his stomach as he ponders the message. Reading it again he nods, knowing he probably would've said the same thing.

Yet for some reason indecision unloads on his chest as the still waking waves of his iris contract to trail carefully over each word. They go over every letter again and again, perhaps searching for something new, some revelation or hidden subtext, but it says what it says. It's plain. It's all there. Somehow it's not enough, and he concludes the next step; they can't go on in this way.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to tell her he can't make it, but heavy feet plopping down the stairs stop him before he can, a flow of sweet-glowing ginger hair flopping on every beat. Another pair of bright blues meets his own when his daughter's face emerges from behind her stack of papers, all of her vibrating in anxiety.

"Even for you this is a little early," he greets Alexis. She orders the papers in her hands in her stride over to the pot for her own mug, sloppy hands dashing in her preference of sugar and cream that hit the rim and bounce onto the counter in dust and droplets. He notes the clothes she's wearing before she can gather a reply…granted, if she could manage one. "You haven't slept."

"Not a blink," she says, shuffling each page. He gestures her over with an open arm, shielding her with it as she sits on his knee for him to assess her face and the scribbles conquering every line of her notes.

"Your speech," he says in clarity, catching some lines of inspiration between the webs of ink. "Words not coming?"

"They are…it's just a mess of them, and none of it is actually...me." Her cheek falls onto her fist, elbow propped on the table in her read-through with thinned eyelids, mentally cleaning it while trying to stay awake. He sympathizes at this near-reflection of him in his own barren writing endeavors.

"A whole night of writing and none of it sounds like you? Are you my daughter?" She passes him a light frown in reading over her words. He amends the thought. "You don't know what to say."

"Sorta," she cuts through the air. "I just don't know what you say for something as big as this. I feel like I've lost a week just trying to write everything…it shouldn't be this hard."

"Well, you do what you can for this one shot. It's hard, but it'll be worth it. The difficult things are the things most…worth doing."

He hears it. It's his own advice calling out to him now.

"Keep working on it, okay," he says standing up while planting a kiss on her head. His feet lead him away while dialing his phone, pacing as his seat squeaks faintly when Alexis sits. It's not loud enough.

The drag of each ring makes sure of that.

"Where you going?" She glances between him and her speech.

"Got a case," he says, slapping his phone up to the opposite ear. The warmth creates an itch. Or he's too impatient. Antsy. He's preoccupied until he notices his daughter's reaction, brows raised with a meek smile holding onto the idea of some normalcy returning, but he grimaces in forcing out another few words. "Last case."

The clarification trashes her hope, and he watches it die with uneasiness as the mask to hide it, she pursing her lips before returning to her speech in clear disappointment.

 _This is my last case?_

There's no apologies. If that's his decision, his child knows he's firm on it, and there's no persuading she can do to alter it. Not for this. The finality strikes him harder once Beckett answers the call.

"Hey…Castle," she says, the uncertainty static through the phone.

It's all they can hear.

"Where are we going?"

They suspend their speech, the implication in the question startling them both. Not his intention, no, but the pause she gives before she can answer confirms both their fears. He'll keep this professional as much as he can. As much as he's able –

without love getting in the way.


	2. Chapter 2

Walking down the alleyway he's not yet sure how to go about this. Last case. It echoes to him in a familiar way, because they've been here before. He's tried to walk away before. Unsuccessful then, but maybe this is the one. Even if he is totally invested, completely over his head, unshakably in love with Kate Beckett.

 _Fuck_ is all he can piece together in his cluttered musings as he marches toward the scene.

Spotting her among the group, folded arms guard her chest while scrutinizing the vic, combing the details thoroughly with Lanie and the boys. She's gone ahead without him. It's just as well seeing that he took his time coming around anyway. A fight rises within, though, provoked from the idea of walking back into what he's about to walk away from.

In his approach they all look on him, each narrowing over his quiet demeanor and unnatural composure, to his empty, coffee-less hands. They know better cataloging this reserved behavior that _something is up_ , but words are as difficult as breathing comes. They appear winded, like he's returned as a ghost. Ryan, Espo, and Lanie shut out their air and hold it, exchanging glances before finding Beckett unfazed. The profile of her face resembles stone, just as his when his blue can finally clash her green.

"Thanks for calling," he says resting hands into his pockets. He keeps cool despite the wide-eyes following him. Beckett nods curtly, circling around the body farther from him before she responds.

"Sure. Didn't think you were gonna come so we just–"

"It's fine," he dismisses. It's quick, too quick.

The silence following enables longer stares, more of them, but neither participate, only Lanie with the guys. They're not as focused on the case, of course.

None of them are, really, devoting the attention they need to be on the victim.

To fill the quiet Lanie's slackened jaw speaks loud and well enough, but her next few words do a better job to summarize everyone's thoughts. "Castle. Where the hell have you been man?"

 _Gone. Busy. Hurt. Some combination thereof._ "I missed you too Lanie," he says with a grin. The curve slopes too much with the tightened corners of his lips. Crooked. Shaped well by insincerity. "Been…preoccupied at home. Helping Alexis prepare for graduation, slash post-graduation too. I'm better at the latter, apparently."

A couple smirks pass through, but it doesn't last long.

"It's a milestone, huh?" Beckett offers up. It's composed of hope in the rise of each syllable. He's kinda surprised...but not really. It's Beckett. Of course she's brave to cut the air. "It's gotta be a big change to have a college girl around now."

He takes the comment in, seizing the opportunity. "There's bigger ones arising I'm left to consider." Off her stare awaiting some explanation, he collects a better punch for what he's getting at. "I've enjoyed what I've been doing, but I need some big changes in my life too."

Beckett's lids flutter. She blinks away confusion to hide whatever thrives in her eyes, but he catches the burning forest in her iris that's helplessly compelled to meet the storming sky in his. The whole proposition reigns her focus away from the case and onto him. Questions don't follow. She just contemplates him, holding on until she rips away, the pain in everything that he might mean serving as his tool.

He's jabbing in all the right places.

She drills her attention into the victim evidently setting the conversation aside, and he watches the effect carefully unravel her. All the talk muffled, it permits him to focus on her without interference. He can't tell if he's actually enjoying this, even if there is some twisted satisfaction in the thickening tension between them. Her reaction strokes his curiosity for further results, feeding the daring mind...a little boy thrilled over gripping a knife.

Tempted to test the damage it can do.

He eyes Beckett at every opportunity for her inability to unite and make any contact. So many attempts, absolutely no return. With the exception of spitting crime details, she doesn't say much. So neither does he. Instead she sits on his comments, now a living distraction, an itch under her skin that she strives to hide through constant movement, her face narrowing into a concentrated state over something no one can be totally sure of.

Noticing an object stowed away, he snaps out of his thoughts to return to the investigation. "Shoe," he says finally. Whatever chat going on outside of his head stops, their attention following his gesture to the vic's foot.

She reaches over and pulls out a holster, an array of tools tucked in the slots. "Lock picks," she says lifting her head to him.

"Now why would he be needing those?" he plays.

–

Returning to the precinct, the team sweeps up more and more info on the guy. Orlando Costas, a thief. It's a surprise seeing how well a gang member of the Cazadores cleaned up his act, but his recent actions pose more questions in contrast. They pursue next of kin, his girlfriend Marisol, retracing Costas steps to land on a bloody trail that leads them into the next alley.

"Body dropped two blocks from here," Espo says as they approach the car fitting Marisol's description. "Blood smeared on the armrest. Gotta be it."

Castle's invested, the initial haze fading now that the case continues on this tumbling progression. However, any chance at conversation, with Beckett at least, seems at a loss, as she's only managed to _look_ at him since his comment – peeking sideways when he seems intent elsewhere even though he's not.

She creates space while investigating, his presence probably repelling him away from her two-feet radius of frustration, and yet stifles all her words. He has to stay if anything will be resolved, and he sees her resistance in knowing that. Fortunately, they have the case. It's one thing they've got to hold them together.

"He was shot somewhere else and then he came here? Why not go home? Why not go get patched up?" Castle says.

"There was a meet, here," Beckett says as she assesses the interior. Oh. A reply. "He was expecting someone in that alleyway."

"Phone. Last call–" Espo checks the logs for anything. "…4:47AM. Just before time of death."

"Run it," she says, attention now directing towards Ryan's hand, holding up a .38.

"Recently fired."

"A shootout. That's why he's got the shoulder wound," Castle says.

"Which means we could be looking for another–" She stops on Espo's throat clearing, his lips parting to speak but reluctant to give it up. "What do ya got?" she says, nodding at him to talk.

"His last entry was 299 First Avenue," he ends in a swallow. Castle bears no look. Not like the others.

"What – what's at 299 First Avenue?"

Mouth shifting, the answer arrives as an alarm only in her mind, her face jolting awake to some new consciousness as if the worst is about to leave her lips. He sees her gnaw on the answer, not wanting to tell. Maybe she can't accept it...or let it be obtainable in that way. But it needs to be said, he discovers, to answer him. "That's Montgomery's. Roy, Montgomery's."

–

The visit to check on Evelyn stirs everyone, and with the reveal of what Santos was after the connections start linking up, but all keep silent on the matter. Everyone knows what this means, but no one has the strength to address it. Castle especially, coming second out of the team on the distress severity spectrum, receiving the realization almost just as poorly as Beckett.

Files. Santos got files, case files from Montgomery that are now nowhere to be found. All three boys exchange those knowing stares upon returning to the precinct, shooting their debate in harsh whispers to avoid Beckett's ears, but she's undoubtedly thinking the same thing slapping Montgomery's picture on the murder board.

Johanna Beckett. Johanna Beckett. Johanna Beckett.

It's a stressed heartbeat splashing the waters that have calmed among them in the last year, and the only reflection enduring these splashes is the shadow of the man from the parking garage. That's what lurks now in Castle's conscience, if this really is, well, what it is.

He looks from a distance on Beckett in the break room, seeing the distress transfer through her arm and into the flick of her wrist, coffee spinning and spoon clinking the walls of her mug in such a violent rhythm to prevent anything entering her thoughts. He's still, but his feet flex in his shoes in a natural eagerness. He just waits, waits for any sign to act. It's the second her eyes dart out into the bullpen to find his that he jumps, but after she's already turning away to seek stability from the chair nearby.

He assumes his post at the doorway, leaning against the frame as she sits–not drinking her coffee, not looking at him, but lost in the specks of the floor instead. Their previous unbalanced footing melts away, coming together with a more familiar ease but both holding the same concerns…fears. He's sure she won't speak on them, but before he can start anything she weeds out a request.

"Can I ask a favor?" she says, voice tense as he imagined…but he's surprised. Her question, her tone, it seeks permission like the request comes undeserved. Either that or she's uncomfortable asking anything from him right now. Maybe both.

"Sure," he says, some gentleness still thriving in the small space of speech.

"Say…" Her jaw moves to split her mouth into a slit, a breath struggling through it to meet his ears, staring down her mug. "Say something reassuring."

Careful here, aware of what she's asking and wanting to give it, he hesitates. The perfect thing to tell – it won't be enough. Not for her. Not for this.

"There are thousands of break-in's in New York City every year."

Her lids hide the anxiety glazing over her eyes, exhaling through an incomplete smile for his effort. Considering their communication lately, she seems to appreciate it with her slight nod. But he knows it's not enough for her to discount her gut on this. "We both know it's different."

Vulnerable. This flash of vulnerability calls him when she looks to him again, reeling him further into the break room in slow steps toward her as he crafts some reply. Satisfactory or not, he's going to try and lift this from her shoulders. They're still partners. "Okay. It's different. But different doesn't mean your mother, doesn't mean we're here again."

"Santos is dead, Castle. It's their process, what they do to people they don't need, or who are in their way. You can take a guess what I am to them. Montgomery said so himself – I got too close, and up to now they want me gone. Even after he sacrificed his life for mine." He gulps, words eluding him as she shakes her head, nibbling on the edge of her lip. "You know, that night in the hangar lives with me. I wake up some days and it floors me that I'm in my own bed, home. Safe. But I'm not am I? I'm still waiting on that other shoe, for that other shoe to finally…drop. What if this is it?"

Heat curls his neck in a collar, the vision of her living with anticipation of another attack at the chokehold. It wouldn't happen. No. Not before, not prior to this case. The terms had been set.

And...she still has no idea.

–

It's late, even for him, a writer up not writing. He's having a staring contest with his own murder board instead, hands folded to prop up his chin as he repeats the names, the dates, the people, and all the other details of Johanna's case in his head.

They're back. They're back here, again. Yeah it's not definitive, but that's what it looks like.

Of every aspect in the case the anonymous man returns with the most power, his words piercing through Castle's chest, the instructions reverberating inside with their own life. There's a particular mix to his anger, apprehension, and anguish over it, but none exceed each other as his mind stays, stays in the same state when he left Beckett. It's torn. He wants to be supportive, because she needs to be supported. But there's a callousness that's grown for her these last few weeks, and that can't be peeled off so freely. Not without consequence. She's keeping her secrets.

But the man of the shadows continues to interject, and that's when reality takes its bite. He's keeping secrets too. But, his secret is keeping her _alive_. That's what matters. That's the difference.

It helps him to repeat that over and over...and over.

With one brush of his shoulders all his musings disturb and wash out at the hand of Martha, ill feelings draining out in his spasm of her presence as she sits down on the desk to block his view of the board and secure his full attention. She pats his arm, holding it with the grip of her fingertips while she evaluates the damage. "Hey."

"Hey," he greets dry. It's not intentional. The exhaustion weighs over his voice more with each additional word, nearly all moisture absent from his throat. "Isn't this kinda early for your acting exercises?" he says.

"Isn't it pretty late for your theorizing?" she copies. His lips flatten as he sits up certain he'll hear more out of her. "What are ya doing kiddo?"

"I'm…thinking," he spits out fast.

"About Beckett…about her mother's murder."

"I don't want to," he insists, arms more animated now. "I hope this isn't that. But I'm worried that it is, and in that worry, I'm taking certain measures to counter it."

"By staying up all night? Staring at your screen like a zombie? I'm guessing you've also abandoned that idea that this is your last case?"

Leaning back further in his seat both hands rake down his face to remove the wear. It doesn't help much. Finding his mother's stare her blues gleam in sympathy, trying to understand. "I don't know," he confesses, the acknowledgement a wake-up call.

"Unsolicited acting advice here: commit to the role. You love her, or you don't, you need to pick your part and play it. Because whatever mess you're doing now, all of us are _unconvinced_."

"You can really take the weight of a situation and just throw it out the window, Mother," he says, head bobbing and hands flopping around in frustration. "It's…a bit more complicated than that."

"Is it?" she says, entertaining his claim, but with skeptical undertones.

"There's been…we've been off, disjointed, and now this case? I can't jump back into that same rhythm with her, but I'm not walking away from this, not if the case is pointing in the direction we believe it is."

"Why is it that you're great with the words but never when it comes to yourself?" He blanks out, primed to respond but she takes another turn. "It's simple, huh? You love her. You love her, but she hurt you, and you want her punished. That's all that's stopping any of this from going forward. I won't tell you whether that's right or wrong, but darling – if you're gonna do that – at least let her know why."

Exhaustion releases a bag of bricks to topple over him as he isolates the murder board, Martha having slid out of view. Her hands rub out his shoulders, both of them looking on the screen together with her words crawling into his ears as they focus on the center picture of Beckett.

"If you love her, you'll give her that much…even if you think she doesn't deserve it."

His smile almost makes it into a laugh, but it's only a huff. She deserves the world. That's why it's so funny.

Deep down, he still wants to give her the world.

* * *

 **A/N: Just some clarifications - this is more of an Always AU. I know I previously said Undead Again also, but it's just the essence of that episode weaved in here. Secondly, this story is already written out. That's what I meant by complete. 10 chapters total. That's why none of my WIP have been updated. This one is important to me artistically because it's showcasing an important aspect to our beloved characters, so I really invested my time in this fic. Hopefully it'll show by the end. Thank you for reading :) bless.**


	3. Chapter 3

Arriving late at the precinct the next morning, LT directs Castle to the interrogation room where Beckett's already grilling the new suspect. The night before with his mother exposing his ultimatum took a heavier toll than expected, making for a morning hassle with his desire to curl under the covers and just stay there. So he's a little late arriving, slumping with a lowered head to avoid eye contact with Beckett should he run into her knowing she might take this tardiness personally, but seeing how focused she is with Vincente through the door window of interrogation, he's mostly sure that she won't address it.

Though it seems if she has any grievances, she's definitely letting it out in that room.

Entering the observation room Castle encounters Ryan, who's grimacing as he forces himself to watch the interrogation, probably a precaution to assure she doesn't do anything rash – which is part of Castle's job supposed to be. She controls him in the field, he controls her in the room – so to speak – making sure the other doesn't do anything stupid.

 _That's what partners are supposed to do_ , her sentiment from the last case haunts.

"Day two and _still_ no coffee," Ryan interrupts him in his reverie. The notion doesn't startle him as much as the fact that Ryan's even aware of it…of something going on. "Yeah, it's pretty bad," he answers to Castle's mouth cracking open. Both turn their attention towards the glass but neither care to listen in, just to view the show. They commentate her scene with their own conversation.

"Does she really need it this morning," he asks nodding at her, specific to the energy she's emitting so freely. He has to wonder who's in a worse position though – him or the suspect.

"If you saw the way she looked earlier, you'd be sure of it. She's not doing well, Castle."

He's without a response, because he knows. He knows what this is doing to her, in entertaining the idea that this case could be linked to her mother's. He knows the tic, the involuntary peeks toward her scar when it tugs; the cringe and twitch at the uttering of "sniper" or a gunshot ripping through the air; the light touches of her fingertips over the cloth shielding her chest, feeling for the ring dangling beneath, gripping it to calm and steady herself.

His lips roll in, confident that if there's anyone, he knows exactly what this is doing to her. All damage, collapsing from the inside out.

He knows...and there's a resulting inexplicable rawness inside his chest over that fact.

"Coffee won't help her for this," he replies after a minute or so, convinced and shaken over his thoughts as he folds his arms. Ryan's hands tuck into his pockets, lips bearing half a grin. Amused.

"Right," he says tipping his head as if addressing the floor, "because it's the _coffee_ that gets to her when you bring it every morning."

Castle swings his head right, eyes demanding to meet Ryan's. His colleague conveys a knowing kind of look, somehow calming an ache in his bones he hasn't been aware of till now. Mouth parting to respond, he stops when Espo arrives at the doorway, holding up a file.

"Ballistics," he starts with eyes wide. "Ballistics and a whole lotta everything Beckett's not gonna like."

As he hands the folder to Ryan who starts to read through, Castle nears with feet unwilling to take him to the boys' side. There's a desire to see the progress, and another desire to avoid it altogether as difficult as that may be, but just as he goes to peer over Ryan surges forward to beat on the glass, Castle jumping back with defensive arms and a mouth slightly gaping as he watches the fist pound away unyieldingly at the window until Beckett gets up to leave.

"Guys, what the hell," she prefaces as she walks through the door, "I'm trying to nail this guy and you're back here–"

"It's not him," Espo interjects. "He's not your guy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Lanie pulled some DNA from under Costas's fingernails. It's a match. Just not for Vincente."

"It matches trace DNA from another crime scene," Ryan adds as she grabs for the file. Castle studies him to get ahead, mentally and physically bracing for what's to come; a deep breath, lungs clutching to the air pouring in as Ryan forms words to finish, ones seemingly bitter rolling off the tongue, eyes squinting accompanied by a tense jaw as though each letter has just soaked in bile. "It's your crime scene, Beckett."

She looks up at Ryan, the disbelief hollowing out her eyes, those ripples of green and brown nearly swallowed whole by dilation of her pupil. Castle stiffens where he stands, watching her while she hastily scans the papers. He exchanges a look with the boys, the confirmation a douse of ice water paralyzing every nerve in the room. This is real. This is the door they must open..

He takes a gulp to get air and moisture down, meeting her gaze when she slowly lifts her head to find his mirrored look of horror, holding onto him somehow even just in this way.

Because, they're back. They're back here again.

–

Space.

He reminds himself to give her space in the surface of this new development, mostly because of the next door they need to open. She's about to throw herself back in with the dogs, ones that are waiting to finish the job they failed to do months before. There's no doubt in her next actions, but it's his own he questions. Should he support it? Should he fight it? He needs time, time he probably doesn't have, to mull it over. With their partnership already in shambles, this case, along with the end result, could make or break them.

So he takes shelter in the break room brewing fresh coffee, perfectly busy until he makes out her voice in the hallway away from other's earshot – specifically Gates. Her voice competes against the chorus of the bullpen sounding from the opposite doorway, but he filters all sounds to discern her thoughts, her position now. Though supported by her conviction, her words still waver in shock, caution…and maybe from the overflow of her fears too.

"Eleven months. Nothing for almost a year, and now this?"

His lids secure closed at her thoughts, as faint as they are traveling to him, knowing he has to stop this before anything can happen. He has to stop this somehow. But how do you stop a bullet after the trigger's already been pulled?

Whatever opportunity he has to prevent casualties, he'll take it. If that means jumping in the line of fire he most certainly will, so long as he can protect her, keep her safe. That's the plan. He repeats it over and over, visualizing the goal.

However, his musings prevent him from noticing her entrance, shutting both doors which ensures the sound of just their voices. Stationary at the farthest door from him, her hands grip behind her onto the handle, looking poised for a getaway. He acknowledges her with a quick side glance but occupies his hands with the pot, sloshing in the steaming liquid haphazardly in his heightened awareness of her presence. Steeling his limbs from collapsing under the gravity of everything going on, he prepares a sad excuse for a latte to avoid talking for as long as he can. Ambivalence crowds him as a thousand things salivate on his tongue for what he could say to her. He can't just choose one, though.

How do you speak to the one person you've been hating and loving for weeks in silence?

"Can we talk?" she barely gets out. There's a strain in her voice seeking permission again, and it grinds through her throat before arriving at the tone of a question. Startled by her approach, by the stressed arch of her brows and the gape of her mouth, he manages just a nod before she steps forward and urges him to sit down first, anxiety filling the expanse of the room, the distance between them. "I'm…I'm really trying to clear my head here. I need it. For the case. What changes were you talkin' about?"

Oh. Despite the heat, his hands grip tighter to the latte. "You mean–what I said yesterday morning?"

"Yeah, I just…you talked about change, you're late coming in, and you've put forth half the work you do on a normal case. You've made it seem–" she falters, breaking off as her face narrows. His knuckles blanch and palms sear, withstanding the heat. She's donning more than just a look of concern as she finishes. He's made it clear what he wants to do. "I just need to know…what to expect."

 _Shit_. Is this really the last case? Is he walking away? Is he really walking away from the fire he started in the first place? "I–I know I said some things…" _Pick your part and commit to it. You love her. Convince._ "You know what? Don't worry about it. It's not important."

"Castle, I'm serious–"

"So am I. You know you're not–" he begins, lips pressed as he holds onto the thought. This is exactly the problem. "You're not _alone_ in this. You know that, right?"

There's a shade of sincerity coating those words that seem to pierce through her as he answers the question they both know she'll never ask aloud, but the sentiment falls short once he gifts her the coffee. Unconscious at first, he stares afterward dumbly like the extended hand belongs to someone else. He can't be sure where the inspiration came from since he's been burying that kind of care for weeks.

Lurching forward, her feet shuffle briefly to near him, hand wary in reaching toward him, but the motions stop abruptly. She seems uncommitted. Timid in drawing near. Instead of waiting for her he unfolds the fist she's made, helping place her fingers properly to hold the handle just as he had done a hundred times before.

It's sloppy, but it gives him an excuse, a way to care for her without it being too obvious. He's tempted to even linger a bit cradling her hands, but his fall once the mug is secure, safe. If only they could've stayed a second longer. Maybe they did, but it just wasn't enough. Well, nothing between them will really be _enough_ right now.

They're still not back to where they need to be. Not yet.

Somehow this is a start though, this exchange of expressions louder than every word they've said. Her look has been soft since his comment and softer now as she tightens her grip on the coffee, eyes narrowed more thoughtfully, maybe dissecting the tenderness over his words, what they mean. It's as if she's remembering who he is, how much he means to her, how much she…

Click.

And the door cracks open. "Hey Beckett?"

The juncture, their first break in much too long, leaves, fleeting on the exhale of breath they both take. His head lowers while she snags her bottom lip between her teeth, looking to the ceiling in dismay. " _Yeah_?" she grits.

 _Damn is she really still adorable while frustrated?_

"We got something you might wanna see," Ryan replies, rooting his sight to the floor. It's an apologetic bow of his head after noting the seriousness of the air, slightly pouting out of guilt perhaps for cutting short this chance for them, some opportunity for reconciliation if that's what it had intended to be. It seemed to be...almost. Regardless, the case has to move forward. It has to progress. Their personal issues can wait.

That's what Castle reads from her look as she stands stationary stifling a breath over his warm, compassionate return, letting the time pass before she absolutely has to decide. He notes the flicker in her stare, the bat of her lids, a battle between her options on what to do here. He's patient, even offers a faint grin in kind. It doesn't seem to help her. She could anchor down and continue on in their talk, but the knock of the mug as she sets it onto the table ends the conversation. The quick pivot of her heel allows her eyes to avoid his as she struts out with Ryan in even clacks of her steps.

 _Right_ , he mouths to himself, trying to accept her choice.

Pushing himself up using the table the exhaustion falls down against him, a heavy blanket wrapped around to inhibit his walk as he goes to rejoin the group. However the vibration in his pocket stops him, revealing an unfamiliar area code in the number flashing on his phone. Ignoring the first call, assuming that if it's important enough they'll leave a voicemail, he strolls back over towards the detectives and murder board to try contributing something, either the obvious or insignificant.

Yet the phone calls don't cease after the first three, ten, twenty tries and onward. The interrogation with Marisol becomes increasingly more difficult with every rejection of the caller, whilst keeping Beckett from totally biting off the woman's head for lying to them. It's not until they both exit the room when he excuses himself to finally take the call over by the vending machines.

"Hello," he spits out answering the phone. It's gotta be the thirtieth attempt by now.

" _With everything that's going on with the case, I'd assume you'd be more careful about keeping in touch_."

No. That–That–

"It's you," he says, lowering his voice. Panic keeps his steps light and quick, darting down the hallway to avoid the sights of others and any curious ears close by. "What the hell is going on?"

" _They're cleaning up after themselves. In doing so your lady there caught scent of them again, and you're doing one lousy job of keeping her controlled_."

"It's not easy. She wants blood, and she's gonna pursue this no matter what I say."

" _Look, Mr. Castle – I'm equipped to deal with them coming after me. I know they've been and are still looking. But understand that I will only go so far, as you have to hold up your role in this as well. Let her keep going, and she dies. I promise you._ "

Castle tastes the response, but by the time he can direct his tongue to say it the man is gone, the line dead within seconds.

Passing the break room, both doorways permit a clear shot of Beckett speaking with the boys, the determination a light flaming in her…a projectile on its course to hit the target. He just watches.

He watches the bullet, knowing he's about to jump right in front of it.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews. I'm so grateful for all of you who have taken the time to show your love for the story. The joy it brings me is endless, and I always reread the things you say. Bless all of you who even take a chance to read this! I hope to continue to bring you a good ride. Happy Castle Monday!


	4. Chapter 4

Functioning on autopilot during work while his mind assesses the situation results in two consequences; Castle retains little to no information on the new suspect, participates in a staring contest with the tile, and the rest of the day remains mute, repeating the same words over and over.

 _You let her keep going, she dies._

 _I promise you._

It provokes lingering gazes over Beckett, whether she's looking or not, to capture the state she's in, to remind himself of the stakes. He can't let her die. Something has to be done. He has to jump.

Even if that means the bullet rips through him to keep going.

So he leaves work early and spends time figuring out how to tell her everything, how to convince her to stop before anyone can touch her. His heart suffers for hours, dangling on a string of hope that his mind can arrive at some other path to pursue, but the results aren't just bleak. He knows. He knows what he's damned to do.

Venturing out the night blankets him, brisk brushing over his skin as he travels to her apartment assuring himself this must be done. All the way to her door his heart bangs in warning, warning of the danger he unconsciously believes will ensue the moment he vomits the truth soaking in the acid of his secrecy.

So he tempers his breath to lull the growing protest of every instinct screaming at him to just walk away. He knows he should just walk away. He nearly does.

But he knocks before he can.

She greets him with growing eyes, but it's pleasant in the way they regard him, the turn of her lips just as soft as she beckons him inside.

"Can we talk?" His tone echoes hers from those hours ago as they walk into her living room. It communicates well that this conversation isn't going anywhere good – and he apologizes for it with the earnest, forlorn sag of his face.

"Is this to compensate for your newfound silence earlier?" she offers light. He doesn't flinch. Every inch of him numbs to prevent any opportunity of doubt to shove him back out the door.

"Beckett…you have to stop."

The faint smile she held onto slides off, processing his words to figure out what in the world he's even talking about.

"Stop what?"

"This investigation. You have to stop pursuing this."

Her expression questions him without so much as a flinch, narrowing her eyes and gaping mouth at his words. Her body arrests, breathing suspended.

It only worsens once he begins to explain.

His face remains unchanged, wrought in the grips of fear as the words hurl out of him, confessing the secrecy, the talks, the deal that's kept her alive for almost a year. By the time he finishes she's stalking away from him, concealing whatever reaction he's certain she refuses for him to see. His teeth clench, fingers curling in to make fists at the idea of the two of them pulling apart any more than they already are.

"Cas–" her voice falters on his name, the last half drying and dying in her throat. A note of sorrow resonates sharply in its place, weak and dangerous as it cuts through him more violently than anything he's ever endured before. "You need to leave," she tries again whipping around, a fuller voice as a tear streaks down her cheek. Cautious, he edges toward her, expressing his insistence to stay.

"I can't do that," he says with a gulp. "I did this to protect you, but you needed to know."

"Castle, I needed a _lead_ , and you kept it from me for a _year_!" she barks. Seething, cheeks flushed with fury, she levels her voice. "Now how do I find this guy?"

"He's a voice over the phone, a shadow in a parking garage–"

"You met with him?" With no response his head just bows, lids sewn shut in repentance. She's winded, struggling to get any air into her mouth. "How do you know he's not behind my mom's murder? How do you know he's not involved – how the hell could you do this?"

"Beckett just listen to me–"

"Why? Why should I listen, why the hell should I trust anything you have to say?"

The subject of truth grounds him back, ripping open a glare in his eyes.

She wants to talk about _trust_.

"Because of everything we've been through together! Because…you _remember_ ," he growls. "Because you remember, you remember that _I love you._ "

The tautness of her face loosens as the phrase escapes him for a second time, but she seems to stand firm in spite of her buckling knees. Regret almost takes him until he spots the shake. "We are not doin' this now," she says, carefully easing down a gulp.

"The hell we aren't. We're both guilty. I kept the deal from you, fine, but you denied ever remembering. You lied too. For a year."

"Really?" she scoffs. "Is that what we're down to here, _comparing our sins_?"

"I'm trying to save your life–"

"Right, last time I checked, it was my life, not yours. This is the most important thing in the world to me, and my partner – you, of all people I expected to _help_ –"

"But I'm not just a partner, Kate. I'm not. Four years, I've been right here! Four years waiting for you to open your eyes to see that I'm right here, more than that." His soul spills out, bleeding down each cheek as he pushes himself to go on – a race he's stumbling in, certain he's losing, but is determined to finish. "I'm the guy who loves you, who can't lose you to this, who _can't_ help. They're waging a war, don't–don't do this."

"It's none of your concern, Rick," she dismisses, striding past him. "You cut a deal for my life like I were some kind of a child. You're the guy who betrayed me. You don't get to decide. It's my life, my fight, and if you're gonna stop me then you can get the hell out."

"They're…they're gonna kill you," he mutters dropping his head, the image of her bleeding out and dying as her mother did weighing it down. "None of this will stop until they do."

"Let them try. Coonan is dead, Lockwood, dead, but I'm still alive. I'm here, and I am ready for whatever war they wanna bring down on me, because I will bring it right back."

Gradually turning to face her, he lifts his gaze from the floor, both their eyes glistening as they swallow their shares of the hurt. He wants to say more, but there's nothing that'll change her mind. Nothing will stop her.

"Okay, Kate. If this is what you want, if you wanna martyr yourself then…have at it. But I'm not finishing the case. This is…over. I'm done with you."

The floor guides him as he sees himself out, the sting of her words making it easy to throw the door shut behind him. However he gently falls back onto it, spent, unable to leave right away. While regaining his strength he's receptive to the slams sounding off around her apartment. Drawers shut, cabinets slam, objects airborne, all of it continues until a single crash tops it all. Muffled sobs – the awful kind that suffocate behind hands clasped over the mouth – carry through the door, choppy through the emptiness engulfing the apartment.

The scene writes at the back of his shut lids, every word to describe the sound of her cries hurdling at him. It's surely a mess in there, and his mind proceeds to detail the image of her broken, lying among more broken things. Shattered things. The internal thesaurus goes to work and provides the paint for the picture he's already sketched out in his mind.

He has to hold himself back, otherwise wanting to run inside and rewrite the story to make it okay for her, for them. Instead he relives their fight, suckling that goodbye in his mouth as he reflects on this last conversation, dwelling in it until his phone sounds.

It's a text.

 _Opposition is advancing. Meet me at the old Manifest building on 47th._

Oh…should he, should he bring her?

 _That's none of your concern, Rick_ , she'd said.

No. No need. They aren't partners anymore.

–

The air of the abandoned lobby at Manifest embraces Castle's skin as a steel jumpsuit, infinitely chilling as he pervades the gray sheet of shadows overlapping around him. He pads through, cautious of the furnishings in his path, but he's focused on his steps, his heartbeat, seeking peace for the nerves. He's yet to recover from the fight, reaffirming himself they really are over.

Only he's still screaming _I love you_ inside.

Turning a corner, the darkest silhouette appears down the hallway addressing him from a distance away.

"Mr. Castle."

"It's late. What's this about?"

"We've been compromised."

The words distress him, but he's stirred by the tone too. _Compromised_ is dangerous in itself. But the inflection implies so much more.

"What does that mean?" he urges on.

"It means watch yourselves. You and Detective Beckett."

"That's why you called me here? Isn't that supposed to go without saying?"

"Not for this. Trust no one outside your group of detectives who've been exposed to Johanna's case. Even for them, be wary. People are on the move. I'll be out of contact until further notice, so don't try to reach me."

"This has to stop! How do I keep her safe if she won't back down?"

"You're a man of words, Mr. Castle. I'm confident you'll unearth the right ones."

As the shadow moves to disappear again, a boom sounds somewhere in the building, rocking the structure at its core.

An...explosion?

It's all slow – the cracks in the edifice popping veins branching out through every wall. A wave of tremors rattle the foundation as it all crumbles down on top of him, consumed by the shards of the building.

He's awake processing it all.

Then he's unconscious for hours. Lost in a slumber he can't pull out of.

Though when he comes to, his body is desperate to be knocked out again.

Pushing off what he can, he crawls through the wreck, blind, searching for the source of light seeping through the disaster around him.

 _I have to get out. I have to get out_ , he repeats.

He strains to move around through the pile of the building, however weak, how each bruise swells, or how each cut sculpts out his skin. The sting in grazing the concrete doesn't help, but it's not the worst thing working against him.

Energy drains too swiftly as the hours pass, comparable to solitary confinement. At some point he can't bear to move, to do anything anymore.

Even so, he does, continuing to fight and find his way out, but he gets nowhere – the light always just out of reach.

The only noticeable change occurs when there's a second collapse, hindering any sun to penetrate through.

Consciousness.

It's never been more horrifying.

The pain, the weight pressed upon him, that's bad. The clouded air, too polluted with dust and dirt to breathe, that's also bad.

What gets him the most has to be the darkness. No matter how hard he focuses his eyes no light avails the new endless sea of black before him. He's drowning in it with no one around to even know, no attempts to spare his soul. A scream to draw out attention seems the direction to go until the force he exerts going to try exceeds the tolerance for the pain.

Surely by now, after all this time, someone has to know he's missing.

Memory serves him poorly as far as time though, the pressure and exhaustion preoccupying most of his thoughts. His position permits only one arm to move and obviously desperate, he reaches for his phone to discover, as he had guessed, it is indeed crushed.

He has to try everything…anything. Here, wherever that may be now, there can't possibly be a useless idea to entertain.

Trying to wiggle free he manages the other arm loose and one of his legs with some strain, but pulling upward the bite of concrete over his other leg elicits a yelp from deep within, now aware of how wedged it actually is.

Shitty air supply. Definitive darkness. Pinned. Everything…collapsed.

But it could be worse, right?

 **End of Part One**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This is not a retelling of Part One in Beckett's pov. The story just continues from her pov, just to clear that up to avoid confusion. Thank you all for your kind words and for sticking with this story. I'm enjoying telling it hopefully as much as you enjoy reading.

* * *

 **Part Two: Always**

Bloodshot.

Beckett's sure of it even before fully waking, a sensation of detachment at the back of each eye. It's this acknowledgement that confirms she's alive, and a new day waits for her once again. Gratitude. That's the word. She's learned to be thankful for the sunlight, for the spill into her room each morning, only the soreness gouging out both eyes makes a point to remind her of the night before in the tears and restlessness that followed the fight with Castle. It's a dream at first – self-assured as she pries her arms from the bind around her folded legs tucked her chest, extending out all limbs to relieve some of the ache in her bones. But all hope of dreaming up the night dissipates once she catches sight of her hand. It's in bandages, and a crisp memory of her lashing out flashes in the lapse of a blink. Oh…the glass. It had shattered on the floor.

Tracing her thumbnail along the gauze wrapped around her opposite palm, everything from the night returns to her, waves meeting the shore again and again, some parts of the tide clearer than others. A drink or two seemed like a good idea then, but she's thankful that an angered haste in grabbing for the glass had kept her away from the scotch–

even just for now, at least.

She parts from her blankets with difficulty knowing the security strips off along with them too. It's painful how easy the energy she's mustered up through the night exhausts, escaping in bursts, gushing in the effort to put that one foot in front of the other and eventually reach the bathroom. These kind of nights have met with her time and time and again, but a looming finality attaches itself to the damage of her heart, toying with it, chest wound inside raw from its presence.

Her…partner. Her partner kept her in the dark. Her partner…is gone. He's done.

Both hands support her over the sink, palms planted on the edges to keep upright, but her left absorbs the brunt to compensate for the inflamed right. Peering into the mirror the swollen bags hanging under her lids aggravate a surge, one hand twisting the faucet on to smear water across her face and remove any residue of emotional bullshit before she can leave the apartment.

Combing her fingers through her hair she notes any improvement, however little. Light make up should help finish the job just to avoid questions…possibly a button-up shirt too, not to draw attention to her bandages. Everything's…going, it's going forward. She's progressing without him. She's moving on without him.

Except his name lingers on her tongue, his face a daydream she finds over and over, sight hazy for it as she readies herself to go off to work. Entering the living room, her bare feet squeak along the floor in skids as her mind falls back into the night, filling the space before her with the scene they made spewing ugly truths and confessions through broken voices...hurt voices. His words reverb in a made-up song, gentle but incessant as she goes to clean up the chaos she'd strewn through the living room and quickly abandoned after he'd stormed out and shut the door on their partnership...relationship.

Whatever the hell it is.

Was.

Shaking her head, she momentarily empties her thoughts when the phone starts to ring. Esposito answers, barely giving her the second to greet him.

"We got a problem," he murmurs. "Castle's…gone."

"Oh, no-no Espo," she says through a sigh. "He's…Castle's off the case. Off the…team, actually."

"Okay…yeah, I guess that comes with it too."

"Too?" she says, both brows hitched up.

"Martha and Alexis are here, asking if any of us have seen him. Apparently, he hasn't come home."

Her mouth shifts, eyes thinning, motioning to speak but the words refuse to commit. The idea is absurd – ridiculous really, and the alternatives for his alleged absence follow thereafter like vomit. "Maybe his phone is turned off? Or it died? He went up to the Hampton's by himself, or he's somewhere–"

"Alexis claims his phone is never off, and that he has a car charger, two just in case, stored in his compartment. Car's missin' too."

The words process, but denial puts up a front to ward them out. No. There's no way, no way he's missing.

Especially not after last night.

"Beckett?" he hollers. Her head shakes again, a swallow tearing down the stretch of dryness in her throat. She's breathing too much, too fast, and not enough all at the same time.

"I'll be there," she says before hanging up. No less than five seconds later she's out the door ditching the elevator for the stairs, both shoes beating on each step along the way. Jumping into her car she speeds, half aware as the heated gears in her mind turn to rationalize the situation.

 _He's fine. He's fine_ , she assures herself. It manifests in a mutter, an inaudible chant as she clutches the wheel. He's probably fine.

She refuses to believe anything else.

Arriving at the twelfth she hurries her pace, sweeping the floor in strides to dart into the elevator slamming the button for their floor but knocking others in the process. The extra stops set fire to her patience and it puddles under the heat of aggravation by the time the doors open for her. As they split to reveal the bullpen, she's leaping out to search for some ginger in her line of vision.

The boys signal to the girls her arrival, her way to cause Alexis and Martha to whip around and see her approach, the three of them gathering to meet at Beckett's desk.

"You're sure?" she begins the questionnaire, sloppily built up in her head. It's unusually difficult looking back and forth into the polished cerulean rings both women share, glistening in the light of the precinct as they fix upon her. Dreadfully familiar…in this way, this condition. She's met this before. Faded ones.

Castle's.

"He wouldn't do this," Alexis insists. "Dad doesn't just go off the grid without some kind of warning."

"What time did you see him last?"

"I left for the library around eight, so before then. For dinner, I guess."

Oh…did she…was she the last one…"How about you, Martha?" she says sneaking a gulp.

"I believe…nine? Nine-thirty, possibly? Ten at the latest." A blanket of heat crowds around her. Past ten. He'd come to see _her_ past ten.

"He…he came over to talk about...the case," she says. _Well, it's not a lie_. "He left my apartment around eleven."

"Did he say where he was off to before leaving?" Alexis poses.

"I assumed home," she mumbles. She has to assume, on account of his…departure.

They forcibly sever their gazes with one another, stress molded into their faces as time passes. Beckett massages her forehead to avoid watching Alexis seek the comfort of Martha, a cry suffocating between their embrace. If the sound is any indication, she reaffirms her decision in not looking.

She circles her chair brainstorming some directive to give the boys to pursue, but Ryan paves the path when his focus sets on the news, the aftermath of a building collapse taking up the screen.

"Oh my God," he says sliding out from behind his desk. Reaching the TV he turns up the volume to hear the reporter.

"Witnesses report before midnight last night the sound of what could only be an explosion, prior to the collapse of the old Manifest building on 47th street. A rep from Charles Haddow, the current CEO of Manifest Solutions, states that no plans for demolition or renovation were set to start until early next year – the plans currently under scrutiny of the board – which has prompted the investigation of the building's demise. While it has not been in active use, response teams continue to search the grounds for potential trespassers, as the security of the premises–"

The camera pans to reveal a car, one similar to another she's only had the opportunity to ride in once or twice, parked across from the now ruins of the Manifest building. It's not until other gasps sound that her fears confirm and anxiety sinks down inside, dragging her heart to join unwillingly.

 _I did this to protect you– I'm trying to save your life– I'm the guy who loves you, who can't lose you to this–_

 _I love you._

Legs beginning to falter, she's left to slam the wounded hand atop the nearest desk to prevent her from collapsing right there. It's a thud, and the smack rips at the seam of the cut, agonizing but not nearly as much as the looks on his girls…in Martha and Alexis's fright when they meet her face over the acknowledgement of the car.

"We don't know," she stresses, surprisingly refined even to her own ears. "It's just a car. He wouldn't have any reason to be down there as far as I know – right?" Exchanging glances, the idea remedies the panic, even for just this juncture as they figure out the next step. "I want you two to go home, and wait for him in case he shows up. I'll look into this and figure out whatever I can, as soon as I can, and get back to you. Alright?"

Beckett brushes her hands along an arm from each of them in consolation. They're hesitant to leave, but an encouraging nod helps to send them on their way. It's a slow exit, both looking back even as they step over to the elevator, but she smiles poorly in return.

"Should we head down there then?" Espo suggests as the elevators close. The boys step forward as she keeps her gaze where Alexis's face had disappeared, entertaining if just for the moment what that look might change into if she finds out her father really is gone, dead.

If he is buried under that collapse.

She's slow in facing them, as if she's consuming all her strength to do so in the company of her raging thoughts. They bury her, some punching and some caressing the walls of her conscience, draining what little strength she has to run on.

"We need to find out if this is…what we think," she starts, "but the investigation has to continue. If not, Gates will start sniffing and barking, and we lose any chance in being able to help Castle."

"If that's what this is," Ryan adds.

She pauses, and offers a meek smile first. _Of course that's what this is_. "Right. You two stay. Get on that lead Marisol gave us with the church, and get back to me as soon as you find anything."

"You–" Espo cuts off, looking sideways at Ryan as she waits. "You don't want one of us to go? So you can concentrate here?"

She suppresses the smile this time. The answer shines in her eyes, but she says it aloud anyway. "It's Castle, guys."

 _He's my partner_ , she means.

And this is what partners are supposed to do.

–

Arriving at the scene, Beckett's tentative in her approach. This isn't her territory – she'd much rather handle murder right now, unless that happens to unfold itself here then maybe not – but she's tempted to round up everyone involved for answers, even if she dreads the confirmation of Castle being here. Assessing the area she processes the air of where the building once stood, the space a reminder of how far something can fall.

She's seen worse lately.

A dare grows the longer she stares, the dare to question if anyone could even make it out of this collapse. There's been stories before of survival under the ashes, victims that were hidden away by the destruction of some natural disaster but surviving on the thread of their life for as long as they could. If he's here, she'll rely on that. But if he isn't, all the better. She needs to know, though, so she seeks out the car first.

It takes every bit of her to reach it and even look inside, some force weighing her down as she strolls forward, but when she does look she can't discern if it's actually his. The clutter bears nothing specific to just him, or anyone in the family, so she heads to the back for the license plate. Shooting a text to Ryan, she asks him to run it, knowing better not to call. Some part of her can't afford to hear the news that fast.

Awaiting his reply, she treks over to the investigators featured on the news. Detectives Julian Folley and Dillon Sati. She's met them at charity benefits before, praised for their work in property crimes, mostly arson related. Clever as they may be she has never been too impressed, expressed openly to combat their frequent slurs of cockiness, but in this instance she knows to bite her tongue. If Castle really is in there, she needs them.

Sati recognizes her first and halts their conversation to greet her, Folley too smug as she draws closer. "Well if it isn't Detective Kate Beckett, what a gift."

"Detective Nikki _Heat_ ," Folley corrects, gawking up and down her body. "How wonderful of you to grace us with your...presence." She hides her cringe at his voice, out-reaching a hand to them to detract from it while wearing her best grimace.

"Always a pleasure," she struggles, craning her neck to properly view parts of the site behind them. Prepared to speak up, Folley cuts her off before she can, a wave of his hand interrupting her scan of the scene to seize her attention.

"You come to finally see us in action? Or did someone scream murder and you came running?"

"I'm here about my partner, Richard Castle," she says, glancing at her phone for updates, a restless bounce in her right leg that escapes her awareness.

"Partner, huh? That's what you call him," Sati says, accompanying a scoff. "Is that an _honorary_ title, or what?"

The heat flares through her nostrils, teeth locked to prevent spewing fire as she adjusts her composure. "He's missing. Been since around the time of this building's collapse," she says nodding her head to the mess. "Mind if I take a look?"

Both guys eye each other, infuriating with their straightened backs and folded arms, teasing in considering her request.

"I don't see why that's necessary. Kinda early to be making that call anyway. Don't you think so, Detective?" Folley says. "What's it been, eight hours? For all we know your buddy could be recovering from his hangover in one of our lovely holes here in Manhattan."

"Could be," she strains in reply, biting back every acerbic comment desperate to come out. She envisions both her hands digging through the scattered blocks and chunks of the building. She could be doing that, instead of grinding her heel in the dirt, ready to make a shallow grave to push the men in. "I just wanna be thorough, I guess. Have the rescue teams combed through?"

"Not completely," Sati says. "It's taking some time since we don't know the cause of the explosion yet."

"Hm. That's unlike you boys. You need some help? Seems like you could use it."

"We're...just waiting on results. I think we're okay here. I'll tell you what though," Folley smirks, setting a hand on her shoulder, "as soon as we get wind of anything, we'll give you a call. Huh, Nikki? We'll clear you to investigate the scene then. Until such time, _we're_ overseeing this ground."

She steps backwards swift enough to allow his hand to slide off and slap his thigh. They've given her the cue to head out, but she's particular in leaving a glare for them, taking a last look at the building's aftermath before she turns away. They're snickering, but when her phone sounds off the alert for Ryan's text she whirls around to walk back.

"I hope that's a real offer," she booms through the air. They eye her when she strides over, her face inches from theirs by the time she reaches them again. Internally trembling from the results Ryan has sent, she powers her voice to a low growl, seductive almost in execution. "I hope that's real, because that car? It belongs to Richard Castle. If it turns out that he's still in there lost in that rubble and I don't get to him in time because of your handiwork? Know I can break everything that you are."

"You really wanna go that route? Because that sounds like a desperate threat. A very desperate threat," Folley retorts, taunting as he lowers his head to level with her. She's unmoved, unfazed, even if her heart quivers for the knowledge that her partner has been here.

Might still be here.

"Does it, Julian? You know what – I apologize, you're right. Understand it should sound like a _promise_." He lacks the power to hold a poker face, wry in its form when she enunciates each word to ensure both men process every single one, a rumble resounding in her tone akin to the warning of a storm. "You need space to do your work? Fine. I'll leave. But if I find out my partner died under your lead, I will not hesitate to tear down all you've become. So either you let me pass to waive your liability, or you keep me thoroughly apprised for your own welfare. Know how to reach me," she finishes before stalking off again.

"Wait!" Sati calls after her. She stops, pursing her lips to conceal a smile at their quick hand to fold, but now fully conscious of her tremors as she waits to turn around. " _Ten minutes_."

The granted opportunity sends her nerves into riots.

Ten minutes.

Ten minutes to figure out if Richard Castle's dead or alive.

"You're wasting your time, Kate," Folley discourages as she marches past them.

"Yeah, my time."

"You don't even know what to look for."

"You don't find a collapse victim with just your eyes, Folley," she says surveying the landscape, attentive to the songs of the dust, any creak and bang filtered through the surface rubble. Her nose opens for any unusual odor from the crumbs of the structure. Before advancing, she tilts her head at both men, genuinely baffled for having to explain. "And I'm supposed to trust you to find my partner?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you isn't enough to say how grateful I am. Bless.

* * *

She goes on a drive. It's not for instinct, or reason, just running for a bit to take her away from everything.

It's for her heart.

Might not be good for the case, Castle, or anything else –

But after everything it's been through, she knows to heed its plea for help.

She's lost track of time since she left the scene without progress on Castle's whereabouts. Rescue has a lot more scavenging to do, proper searching, and she's not about to sit idle in wait for them to find something for however long that'll take. Instead, she's riding around, burning gasoline for as long as she can without stopping. It doesn't matter.

She needs the space.

For now everything scatters, jumbles of words from everyone clunking noise to her ears, but it's a phone call from Ryan that beckons her to return.

"You planning to come back soon?"

"Why, what's goin' on?"

"It's Gates. She's pressin' me and Espo about where you are. We didn't say anything, but she's not buying that you've been out this long pursuing a lead."

"Damn. Okay. I'll head back now. Thanks."

Forcing herself to go, she plays the conversation she had with Castle on loop in her head as she heads back. Immersed into the fight along the way, her vitals achieve the same state as last night, a current of anger, betrayal, and woe coursing through, to speed her blood and heat her skin, hate poisoning her mind.

She hates herself for lying, hates him for his secrets, for walking out, hates their relationship for whatever the hell it was, is...will be. Her tongue tucks curses away for him in whispers, pissed over every lie and truth that's successfully driven them apart. The warmth starts to pent up, all her grievances of him, the case, her life, meshing into one entity that threatens to dangle her by the heart, but by the peak of the pain, she's parking at the precinct already. Shifting the gear, her bad hand grips to it while the other curls around the wheel, a rest for her forehead when she lays it on the back of her hand.

How is it that she wants to run away from him, and yet quietly beseech the universe for his life? How is it that her skin still has to recover from the burns of anger for his wrong, but her bones are achingly chilled over his disappearance? Amidst all of it, one thought reigns the rest, temporarily stealing that freedom to breathe as it takes over her–

The guy who loves her is missing. The guy who… _she loves_ could be dead.

Quickly disposing her musings, she composes herself again while exiting the car, hurrying back to the boys to prevent any more opportunities for Gates to catch them in a lie. Breezing through floors on the stairs this time around, she rejoins them and gathers the update.

"Everything…okay?" Espo asks as she approaches. Both boys look expectant. Nodding in reply, puzzled by their stares, her attention draws to the desk, seeing an array of surveillance footage printouts.

"Are these from the church Costas went to?" she says gleaning on the first few shots. A finger hooks on the corner of one, lifting it to study the rest, waiting for something to appear...for a face.

"Yeah, some of these. The church, they use the cameras to monitor the donation box. We thought maybe our guy made a guest appearance, and this is what we found. But–"

"We get a name?" Her eyes flick between each photo for the right one, an eagerness in the shuffle of the stack. The boys try to answer, but when heels start to click, the rhythmic beats slap her chest for the knowledge of their owner.

"Detective Beckett," Gates calls. Beckett doesn't turn. "A word?"

Eyeing the boys first, she sets down the pictures before going for the office. Taking a seat in front of the desk, her head hangs, hair framing the edges of her cheeks to brace herself. She must know something.

"So – where did your lead end up?"

"Dead," Beckett says looking up, blank in her expression. All her attention isn't there, absent to a certain degree, unable to wholly give it as Gates continues to chip away at her.

"You've been gone that long, and you came back with…nothing?"

She turns to the windows, bottom lip hooked under her bite to quiet everything tearing up inside. She leaves no evidence of her torment. No witnesses to the destruction, no one to save her soul from punishing itself. "I caught the news," Gates offers their silence. "That building collapse on 47th."

This joins them in a stare down, foreign in nature as her dulled mesh of honey green seeks the dark pools opposite them, an understanding swimming there between that Beckett can't accept – nor Gates deny, neither to say aloud.

"What have you heard?" Beckett manages in a low roll of her voice, an anticipation living there for what response she'll get.

"Latest is that there was a secondary collapse. Sometime around one. The biggest talk is…Mr. Castle might be among the victims, if any." Gates sits back more, arms propped on the rests of her chair with folded hands over her abdomen. "Is he really missing? Did he go rogue on your investigation?"

"I'm sorry, sir, he's missing but that's the extent of my knowledge. I don't know what this is. Our case hasn't revealed any links to that building."

"And by your lead, you meant your pursuit in finding him?" Gates perceives her slight nod in response, but the behavior communicates some fear. Not for the captain…but for her ruling. "I get it, Detective. I know that loyalty, and I've been there. But remember your responsibilities here. You have a real case. Commit to it. If you can't, I'll find someone else who can."

Beckett understands, but the flare of her frustration ignites through other means. She's not angry at Gates, but herself. The choice is here again, a clear divide in the road.

God, she could use a latte right about now.

Her curt nod in reply ends the discussion, pushing up from the chair with some kind of relief, coupled with a tug at her chest as she walks out, but she's stepped out the door right when Gates calls for her again. Peeking in with brows raised, a hand grips to the doorframe in support of her weakening limbs.

"I'm not a big fan of Mr. Castle," she admits, lining half a smirk on Beckett's lips. "I'll be honest, and I'm guessing you know that. But I...do hope he turns up. For his family's sake, and…yours."

"He's my partner," she answers fast. Neither can tell if that's a defense to justify her actions, or an attempt to brush-off the situation and its actual effect on her.

"I know," Gates agrees. It's something there – whether the words or the tone – that lifts a fuller smirk as she returns to the boys. Iron Gates knows it too.

Richard Castle is her _partner_.

The boys beckon her to come back and look at the photos again, each of them holding stacks in their hands. They're prepped to present, but she gulps a bit at their wary demeanor.

Waiting for a bomb to blow.

"Show me those shots again," she says reaching out for Ryan's bundle. He doesn't let go, but his eyes flick to Espo's.

"We got two clear profiles of him," Ryan says setting down one photo. His knuckle taps it, and as he pulls it back her sight settles, evaluating every curve, every edge, every bump and dent of the face.

"So that's what you look like…" she exhales, lost in the premise of finding the man…the killer behind the gun who had broken her up, safety as a promise thrown away, one she could never hold onto for an entire year. This is the man who shoved her straight into hell. "And the second picture?"

Espo rests this one down, a slightly vague, darker image, probably on account of the poor camera quality and bad lighting. Night lighting.

"Where'd you find this?" she draws out, assessing the profile and build of the man. Wielding both images in her hands she compares, ingraining every detail she sifts out, until all of it blurs when Espo answers her.

"We got it off a traffic cam. Off 47th," he says.

Her blood drains, pooling to the center of her chest, icy as all function ceases under pressure. A whistle whining in her ears disrupts the flow of the precinct's voice, a momentary silence preceding her reply. She's sputtering her words as a shiver, forcing them out.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's Manifest."

"I know, what's–" she stops, picking up her head and glowering into the muddle of bullpen. "What's the time?" her voice scratches through the air, hands jarring, the images blurring as they move along with her. Unwilling to let the reality settle in the instant they confirm the obvious, the boys delay. It makes her worse. " _Espo_!" she hisses.

Ryan's quicker to give. "Around midnight," he supplies, glancing over at Espo's lids squinting shut in pain of what this means. The grief threads through him, Ryan, and then Beckett, united in the same distress. Her jaw clenches, flexing both corners over the connections. Everything is intertwining.

Castle. Her mother's case. The shooting.

"You're telling me my shooter was at the same place Castle–" she cuts off. There's no way. Had he…had he been meeting with her sniper? "Who else was there," she presses, a faint shade of hope staining her face, her tone. The boys shake their heads.

"We got Castle too. That's it," Espo says. She slaps both pictures down to cross her arms and pace around, sweating out the fever of panic. She can't get rid of it. "Did he know somethin' we didn't?"

His words halt her where she stands, torn between the fight and temptation to say it, to snitch on his sin, but ends up remaining mute on the talk of the deal Castle had made. If he's really…gone…she won't paint him a traitor to the boys. They've come to love him too much.

"He's a...smart dork," she tries with a wry smile. Her voice filters through it to give the appeal of lightness, but her hair curtains her mouth when her head bows. Insincerity has never been so wretched. "He's proven himself before. Maybe he fell on some trail we missed. Or he got lucky."

"Is luck really the word you want to use?" Ryan quips.

 _No. Not at all_. "It doesn't matter. What we know is that they were both there at the time of the collapse. I need a why, and I want a name," she instructs before collecting the pictures.

"I'll run this through army CID–" Espo starts, but she cuts him off snatching the photo he'd grabbed.

"No. Take your heads out of the books," she says tossing the pictures onto the desk. "We have no idea who we're dealing with, how far up this takes root. We're on our own here."

"Beckett, how are we gonna investigate? We've got near nothing to go on," Ryan counters.

"Near nothing isn't nothing. We're holding on to this lead. Discreet and out of Gates's sight or earshot. Got it?" Her head cocks behind, relieved to see the captain's office closed. Espo nods for himself and Ryan when she returns hard eyes, even when Ryan shoots him a look, prompting her exit.

Strutting out to leave again, the idea of her sniper and Castle being together disturbs the core of her body, wavering in every step she takes to the elevators. Any moment she could topple into the walls narrowing beside her. None of it makes sense, but she's sure of one thing; dead or alive, Castle's caught, lost in that wreckage.

She's wrong about another thing, though. Now? _Now_ , she really is in hell.

–

She's not desperate.

She just...makes rounds to any place of leisure where Castle would loiter at. From The Old Haunt to Remy's, she's keen and careful on every possibility, in light of all that's ensued following their fight. Any places he could be other than on 47th.

With every spot she crosses off the list, the more everything bursts inside her. It's like the shattered glass, that change from order to chaos in one inciting moment, as the ways of the universe they say. It's a sign of moving forward.

This momentum into more chaos just might kill her, though.

She doesn't wanna place him there at Manifest with her shooter. If she does, it means everything she doesn't want to believe. She doesn't want to believe that for a year Castle has been meeting with her sniper. That he's given ample time to the guy in order to reorchestrate another attack. No, she wants to believe something else, to find him somewhere else, yet there's nothing to dissuade her as the search draws to a close.

There's one spot she leaves last, however, but it's also a visit in part to easing herself. She makes it down to the park partially hoping to see him there, swaying on the swings. Their swings.

Taking her respective place, it's unsettling to recall the last time they'd sat together here. In retrospect the situation then looks milder. Except, she had some idea of what to do at the time. It's not a matter of right and wrong. This isn't a moral dilemma. It's the choices.

She's lied to him. For a year.

Okay.

So has he.

He kept her in the dark. A potential key in developing her case. Her mother's case. He's the guy who betrayed her.

But now he's gone or…maybe even…no.

There's some kind of crumble in her chest, no longer from anger or hate. She's exceeded that stage now. An overwhelming numbness encases her as she copes with the idea of Castle's lie and the man involved in it. There's no direction of how to address that. Focus comes scarce now, and she can't make sense of it, anything. Does she even want that? Could this be a truth she isn't willing to hear?

Leering over on his seat with bittersweet affection slightly swaying side to side in hers, she stares as if he's actually there, swinging beside her. Flying beside her, like he always had. His courage and craziness builds up in her eyes like an endless film of his antics, vouching for the man she knew...knows him to be.

If he has been meeting with her sniper, there's no way he could've known it, who he was.

Oh, but the premise of what it all means. He's there somewhere, lost in the disaster, a victim of the man who's tried to kill her too. The deceiver, who snagged the opportunity to utilize Castle as a pawn to be discarded after serving the needs of the king.

The son-of-a-bitch who's played the role in creating this division between her and her partner.

 _There's always a story_.

If there is, she needs to find it.

Still, she's not desperate.

Not yet.

By dead afternoon, almost evening, she's at his door, standing there just enough that she can't actualize for how long, but maybe that's because of the reason she's there. The reason she's outside Castle's loft, even though he's not inside.

Her hand has raised to knock, quite a bit in failed attempts now, because it's a load she can carry for only so long before bringing it back down. Eventually finding the power to do it, her hand raps on the door, twice before her fist falls to the side immediately dropping in regret afterward. She reassures herself this is the right thing. It's not even that she questions it – they need to know. But when Martha answers the door, she can barely get out a proper greeting for her.

"Oh, come in-come in," Martha says while ushering her inside. Stepping over the threshold she swallows the words before they can leave her mouth, ambling towards the nearest furniture piece to prop herself on, that being the couch.

"No word, huh?" she says. Martha struggles through a grimace in return, lamely trying to substitute a frown.

"What about on your end, dear? Anything?"

 _Some…thing. Everything_. "Not much," she says light, any warning of the following fact, void in her voice. "Except…except the car."

"The car? Richard's car–? The one on the–" Martha sputters for clarification, but the tug of the mother's heart yanks tightly with the bob up and down in Beckett's slow nod, the realization over her son's condition twisting her face into horror.

Delivering news of death, that's part of the job...murder victims, it's Beckett's territory. Never an easy role in regards to next of kin, the families she encounters, but it's not extremely difficult either, not totally. She can attain some resolve later on in solving the homicide cases. That's the compensation. This, however, isn't a case. It's not a murder she doesn't think. Frankly, she doesn't know what the fuck it is.

That's the part paralyzing her, stunning her body before Martha's sight – because she doesn't know what's happened. The uncertainty is a player she's inevitably pitted against, and she will fulfill her role in spite of its prevalence, to tend to Martha and Alexis in this awful time.

But what does she say?

"We have evidence…he was there, at the time of the collapse," she concludes, clinical in her inflection. But it's her partner. No distance she places between herself and the case can remove that fact. She knows it like the taste of her tears, the pools of grief brimming under her eyes. This is about Castle.

She doesn't care if he's done with her.

"Oh Katherine–" Martha croaks, "is he alive, please, tell me you're not here for–"

"We don't know," she replies, repeating herself over from the morning. It buys time to collect something else. "I just came here to let you know what's been goin' on. I'm heading back over to assess their progress."

"Beckett?"

The silhouette appears in her peripheral vision, but it's the slip of her name off the tongue of a young girl, the crack of fear in the voice a hand reaching out to clutch the scarred heart inside her chest. Turning to address the child is a greater task, forced to process the etched lines of sorrow decorating Alexis's look, the yellow tassel dangling in front the only color alive in her face. The cap, the gown, she's stationary at the top of the steps wearing it all, but it makes the situation more grave.

 _Shit_.

"What happened," Alexis prods as she flies down the stairs, the balls of her feet pounding away at each step. Her eagerness transfers to her robe, ripples of the draping material a disturbed water unsettled until she arrives at their side. "Did you find anything about Dad?"

Must she say it again? "It…it was his car." Yeah. Definitely worse the second time around.

"You're saying he's…"

"We don't know," she persists again.

"No–but–" Alexis begins, trying to complete the thought. "You – you guys really think he went in that building?"

Oh God. Does she have to tell them?

"We caught him on a traffic camera. It's more than just the car. We know he went in that building." They release gasps, but Alexis, her hands release the fists she'd made, lips peeling open, poised to say or bait for more.

 _Damn. Just like her dad – unconvinced over a half-assed story._

"But _why_ , why would he be there, at that particular building in the dead of twilight?"

The acid in her stomach demands attention as she has neglected her meals all day. Or maybe, maybe she's physically warning herself that Castle's motives are alarmingly overt. There's only one reason he looks for a story. A case corresponds to it.

And Alexis knows it.

"He was there for the case," she confesses. "One of our suspects was spotted on site too."

"For your mother's case?" Martha says. Alexis heads for Castle's office just as the formation of yes sticks to Beckett's tongue. "Let me go talk to her–"

"No, Martha–" she interrupts, waving a hand. "Let me, please."

A soft nod grants her passage, edging then towards the office doorway to follow the young girl. Her steps labor forward, chained to some anchor along the floor, feet dragging in a pace of reverence as she reaches Alexis standing by her dad's desk. She's met with her back, body language louder than any other means to express herself, so Beckett cautions her own moves, inspecting every word before releasing each one.

"Alexis?"

The tassel sways when she turns her head, but she doesn't face Beckett. "I'm not mad," Alexis ends with a sigh, a quiver hooked onto it as her fingers tap on the desk, a bounce in her left knee she can't seem to hide well.

"You're not mad," Beckett concedes.

"I'm just…frustrated."

"…with me." It should've been a question, but she's inclined to believe it already.

It's not exactly the first time Castle's sacrificed himself for her.

"Oh no," Alexis says spinning to face her. Her cap falls off, but Beckett catches it mid air before landing on the floor. Part of a grin hangs on as Beckett tucks the cap properly over her head. Adjusting the tassel, fiddling with it perhaps a second too long while gathering what to say, they both exchange faint smiles, words hesitant as they share this moment.

"Listen...If I've done anything to upset you–"

"No, Kate, no. It's not you. It's not really Dad either. He was probably doing what he always tries to do…what he thought was right. It's…hard, that's all. All of this, you know?"

"I do," she says fast, sitting back on the desk's corner. "You love your dad. This work gets dangerous, and it's difficult the not-knowing. Then there are situations like this."

"Yeah," Alexis says in a nod. "But I…I won't ask him to stop. I'm extremely proud, and I can see how happy he is doing this. It matters a lot to him."

"He's drawn to the story," Beckett bows in a light chuckle. Time fills a long pause, ending when she lifts her chin from her chest to meet Alexis's head tilting, curious. Bemused.

"Yeah," she supposes, "among other things."

Beckett's jaw shifts left, a trace of some smile in her lips. She straightens up, fixed on the graduate standing next to her. The sharp girl she is, she knows it too. Of course she knows it too.

"Your dad's strong, Alexis," she says clearing her throat, grappling for the next possible thought. "I know you know that. You two are one and the same." Alexis widens her lips, allowing Beckett to loosen hers too. "Whatever's goin' on, he's gonna pull through it."

"I know…but I can't help feeling this way, knowing he won't be there tonight. It feels like–like I've already–"

"You haven't," she spits, resolute in the shake of her head. She will not allow it…she won't lose his life to end up as another memento for her to wear. "He's gonna hold on until I find him, and I will. I _promise_ you."

Beckett steadies her eyes, offering assurance in them for Alexis to take, and she does, accepting with gratitude when she lurches forward for a hug. She sniffles, squeezing out the tears already lining the corners of her bright eyes. Beckett already expects them to fall, the thin stream that drips onto her shoulder.

She's clinging onto hers, though.

"Darling, we have to go," Martha barges in. The moment dying promptly, the three prep to leave but exchange numbers before they can as they all walk out the loft together.

"I'll call you later," Beckett says with a curt nod watching them walk away. Alexis holds onto a gaze with her until it breaks in the close of the elevator doors.

Cleansing her chest in a sigh she waits for the next ride down, slapping her phone rhythmically into her palm in impatience. It's not long before it rings, occupying her time before the doors can ding, keeping her grounded as the purpose for the call unfolds.

"Yo Beckett," Espo answers from the other side. "Where you at? Did you get to 47th already?"

"No, not yet," she says pushing back her sleeve for the time. "I just updated Martha and Alexis, on my way there now. Why, did they find something?"

"Yeah. Your buddies called. They found some _one_."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: My deepest gratitude to all you readers/reviewers. I can't thank you enough.

* * *

It's the first time she's ever used her siren for a personal reason.

But of all reasons, she figures it's a pretty damn good reason.

So she arrives at 47th with half the travel time cut, surfing the traffic without much trouble, or any at all really. She's determined to not waste any time.

They found someone. They found him.

She's frantic reaching the site, plowing through the crowds – larger now that the media has made known Mr. Eligible Bachelor, Master of Macabre is under the wreckage – clamoring to find Folley and Sati. She's fluid, the drum of her heart the beat her steps follow, _Castle_ the only lyric fitting the rhythm her mind sings. A desire brews in her chest that the moment she sets her sights on him, the first reaction will be to fling herself around his neck, solely to convince her senses that it is in fact him. Her eyes scan as she surveys the area, but when she spots the detectives, able to overlook everything from before, she notes his clear absence and waits for direction to him.

"Where is he? How–how is he?" she says as they begin to walk around the perimeter.

"Alive," Sati answers. A shudder claws over her shoulders to creep down her back. It's a bittersweet release of chained nerves, an unexpected breeze shocking them back to life. _He's, at least, alive_ , she actually hears in his voice. _Forget it. He's **alive**_.

A teeny voice dares to question how much, though.

They only direct her so far until they reach a part of the building still erect, where a man from the rescue team, some medical specialist named James Bradford, leads her to the opening further in, explaining the status of Castle's situation.

His leg is pinned. That sticks out above any other medical jargon Bradford tells her, echoing in her ears over and over. Some fluids have helped, and he should be out soon, but there's work to be done. Precautions to take.

Surgery, he says.

She stalls, but everything slumps forward inside, caving in.

 _He's alive._

"Can I see him?"

"It's not advised that you do so–"

"I'm sorry, I didn't ask what you'd advise. Can I _see_ him?"

"It's _risky_ ," he drawls, gesturing her to calm with his hands.

"For me or him?"

"You. You could get hurt. We're not sure how stable it is since the second–"

"Does it look like I came down to chat, Bradford?" Her stance remains firm, immovable as he decides what to do. "My partner is down there. With or without you, I'm goin' in." Bradford rebukes with a huff before relenting to show her the entry site, how to slip down and maneuver in the tunnel they've sifted through.

After a couple minutes, she hears coughs, the huff of them too familiar and unsettling to her stomach, but their echoes function as a guide. Utilizing the flashlight on her phone, she and Bradford make it to the crawl space lit up with emergency lights that reveal a man sprawled out.

The warm glow of him she's so accustomed to dies beneath the gray debris and dust matted to his skin, some patches of sweat glimmering through under the dim golden light. She can barely hear her breath over the scream of relief pulsating in her veins. The smell has little effect for her, dry, if anything, the conditions unable to distract her focus. It's her eyes that never leave him, as he waits for Bradford to near before he shifts his head to face her. He's so gradual and cautious in his turn, revealing the same piercing blue she faced the night before.

It's the ones that had watched her through the night in her reflection, then her dreams, conquering her mind with that look from him she's grown so fond of but could never accept belonged to her. She doesn't believe it, but _oh...fuck_. She crumbles inside, stiff in her uncertainty of what move to do next, stunned by a sigh her soul takes involuntarily. Her eyes trail all over him assuring every aching bone that he's here. Alive.

He's not confident that it's her, squinting first to validate the silhouette before him followed by a release, a flux in his expression when he's finally sure. To herself, she rejects his disbelief; he had known immediately when she emerged before him. It's never taken him much to identify her through the darkness, through a crowd, in the rays of the glaring sun. He'd call for her among whatever mess lay before them, abiding her every step long before she could find him...because he would find her first. It's just surprise that blinds him now. He has every reason to be surprised...because she's here. She shouldn't be, if she's upset. She has the right.

Even so, she's come back, to be there next to him, by his side.

"Beckett?" he says, voice hoarse. He's checking twice, waiting on her voice for confirmation. It takes her a minute to will herself forward. Tucking away her phone, she drags herself on her stomach to properly navigate in the cramped space, smearing her forearms along the ground to move toward him.

Closer now, his cuts, the wedge of his leg, the weariness in his face – she absorbs it all, reflexive when her hands seek his calf, grazing his bandages all over, from his arms to his face. Her fingers lift in fear after processing what she's done, but he doesn't seem to shy away. Thereafter, she makes a point to stand by her actions.

"God…Castle," she mutters, evaluating the damage. The crease in her brows conveys enough to him, but there's a glint of something in her eye. Outwardly, she's worried.

Oh, but there's a fire of ardor enkindled beneath.

"That bad, huh," he jokes. It's lame, cheap, but he tries, founding some semblance of solidarity for them to stand on. For whatever reason, he does, and she smiles easier at his spirit, his effort. Hope returns on the thinnest wick to bear it, a capricious flare lit. There's something salvageable here, it seems, so she treads carefully with the knowledge of it, hoping her moves don't put out the flame.

"How's the leg?"

"Really hoping I can keep it," he says looking to Bradford. "Can I boss?"

"If we can do the fasciotomy in time, then yes you just might."

Too much pressure, something about compartment syndrome...it's a blur all together as she studies the doctor sterilizing a spot on his leg. As Bradford redirects the light, she views the swelling, the bruising. There's a promise in the bulge of the skin. It promises agony.

"You shouldn't be here," Castle punctuates with a gulp, glancing back and forth between her and Bradford. Tipping his chin towards her wrapped hand he continues. "Especially not with that. The secondary collapse is what pinned me. It might happen again. You could get infected maybe have to amputate your whole arm–"

"I'm fine, okay? Let's not do this now," she says, an airy chuckle flowing between her syllables, slipping her wounded hand under his head and propping up the back of his neck. It cushions him in support, leveling it in comfort for his already awkward position in the concrete surrounding him. Her free hand dusts him off, careful to miss the bandages, tending his face too in smearing away sweat...tears probably included in the mix. Chilled at the touch, clothes smudged with some crimson... _oh, blood_...her lids water to witness him in this state, this vulnerability.

It keeps her emotions at bay, for the most part, focusing on the environment he's been lost in for hours. He could've died...

He could've died.

And so it follows – it's been a year since _she_ almost died. It kills her how the tables have decided their turn.

"There's nothing you can do," he says breaking her out of her rumination. She's unconsciously gazed one too many times over his trapped leg.

"I'm not here because there is," she rushes, offended eyes narrowed over him. Her sincerity strikes them both, but she's amazed at herself not just because she's said it aloud – but that she actually believes it.

She does. She _wants_ to stay with him.

"Just a friendly reminder that this might hurt," Bradford says.

"Is that the pressure gauge again?" he says through a breathy whine. The doctor just nods. "Okay...go ahead."

Her expression rounds out in panic, sputtering words just as she thinks, "no anesthetic?"

"He used it up on the first two tries–" he manages, but yelps out the last word, hand forced into a fist that ascends, only to fall again and pound against the earth, distraught. His back arches, head rolls over her hand, but the pinch doesn't occur to her. She's too busy steadying his torso, holding down his wrist on his taut abdomen as he rides out the stab of the needle. The sweat she'd cleaned off him a couple minutes before coats him again, bundling the spikes of his hair and salting the new tears falling down his temples. His lids flex to close; she's imploring that it's over.

Neither acknowledge that he's cradling her hand upon his chest, his ten fingers twined with her five, even long after Bradford retracts the needle. The race of his heart alarms her, the contraction too distinct through the skin and what clothes it, but it testifies his life, his presence when the rest of him goes mute.

"We're gonna get you out soon, Rick," the doctor says, cleaning up his mess before leaving. Castle doesn't bother with his exit, instead taking a stretch to regain repose. She helps him, talking low, fortifying him with the squeeze of her hand as she coaxes him to speak. Her thumb tucked under his head strokes back and forth to assure him she's there...there with him still, waiting for him to do the same.

"Talk Castle," she fans over his shoulder to reach his ears. "Say something. Just–talk. Please." Their hands rise up and down as his lungs expand, breaths full even in spite of the polluted air. He'd kicked up some dust in his tense writhing, but she couldn't shy away. Even now.

"That's one thing you should only have to do once," he finally says, hazy in his return. Her head drops to face the ground, hung in release of the tension. "Not fun."

"Doesn't look-it," she mumbles, lifting her gaze back to him. "It's the first time you've ever shut your mouth, for anything."

Opening his eyes to her, he cocks half a grin. It's all he can manage, she figures. "Listen...I don't need you to get wounded down here and have me need to lick your cuts too," he says. He's deflecting, refusing to speak on the palpable ambivalence in their actions, but the deflection speaks too bizarre for her to disregard.

"Lick my cuts–you licked your cuts?" She hates it. She's half-chuckling already before he can answer her.

"Oh c'mon. You're telling me you don't know about that? Saliva helps heal wounds faster," he enthuses. She's impressed, a bit, but her teeth keep it in.

"So, you licked your whole body?"

"Just the cuts. It was quite difficult too, when you need to produce the amount I needed. It was a challenge, I'll say."

Ooof. What a bass thumping in her chest. This feels good, it feels…normal. It feels like...

Them.

"Did you learn that for Derrick Storm, or did you find it in your apocalypse survival guide handbook?"

"Ah, you mock, but I pretty much saved myself from infection." Both letting out a snicker or two, the clearing of his throat cleans the air for more serious tones. "Really though, you should be going. I'll be fine."

There's a pause, suspending for some time as he stares without a blink. He's either giving her an out...or avoiding the obvious question.

"How did you end up here?" Face sinking, anger or hatred don't return to her heart. Rather, Alexis, disappointment, and grief resurface in her mind as he finds the words to answer.

"The man I told you about – he told me to meet. Here."

She turns away slightly, the confirmation a hand pressing on her jaw to do so. "It's the same man who tried to kill me."

"What? How do you know?"

"The church meeting spot. Surveillance gave us a face, and we captured the same one off the traffic cam here on 47th. We're more than just confident it's him."

"But…he wanted to protect you. He brought me here to warn us, that these men after you–"

"Castle I saw, okay? I saw the photos. I saw he's – he's alive in my mind more than anything else. You really wanna fight about someone who's only a shadow to you?"

"You don't trust me," he whispers, lolling his head to face up and avoid her glare. She doesn't move but she's burning again, radiating the illness towards this whole mess from deep within her veins.

Trust is a touchy subject.

"You've given me one hell of an excuse not to," her breath grates what little space they've left between their faces. But she's inching away.

"Damn it–I was trying to keep you safe, that's all."

Oh. There's a pause lodged in her throat before she chokes out her anger through a stifled cry. She retracts her hands in frustration, but her right stuck under his head moves slowly enough to keep him from getting hurt.

"Safe? You kept me in darkness, just like this." She gestures around them before returning her watering wreaths into the sky…the sky trapped in his irises. "For a year, a whole year I braved nights like it were some kind of battle. Y'know how many times I pulled my gun on an empty doorway because of a pop in the crappy piping? Because of some bang, or crash outside at 3 am? I've been waiting for the second bullet, for a year. Your deal allowed him more time to get his shit together to gun me down again, so please tell me how I should feel _protected_."

"The guy who shot you? I don't know about you, but he doesn't seem the type that needs to get his shit together to kill," he says. His words are brave, but the lids flutter too often with swallows and a tightened jaw to match. She's wounded him somehow, maybe with the imagery of her suffering. In spite of it, he continues on. "Why would he strike a deal? For what reason? Why wait to kill, especially knowing I could tell you at any time? He couldn't know that I'd be willing to keep it from you, even if it were for your own good. This guy, he could've picked anyone. He picked me because we're partners, because he knows I'd...do whatever it takes to keep you alive. Which is what we did."

"What you did was sit on my breakthrough while you knew what was goin' on with me."

"I did what I thought was necessary to help–"

"And now look where we are," she deadpans. "He tried to kill you."

"No, he couldn't have done this," he insists. "His hands were empty at the time of the explosion. He was in my sights before I knocked out, looking just as frightened as me...the poor old bastard."

 _Old…old?_

"He's old?" she says, voice leveled out. "How? How was he?"

"Wrinkly? Think of, uh–half dried out grape that's not quite raisin, with some dead hair colored like a grayish Casper – I don't know. That's my definition of old-looking."

 _So…then…_

"There's another guy," she gathers. Checking her phone for signal, she calls up the boys. When neither pick up she relays the message via text, informing them of the third man, and requesting a more thorough search of the traffic footage. Every inch of her stiffens, a pang twanging to counter her pounding heart, dissonance in the pulse of her blood that welcomes an ache throughout.

She doesn't know what to think anymore.

"I have to go," she says scooting towards the tunnel, but he reaches out for her, the pads of his fingers just feathering the top of her hand once she's moved away. He's restrained, but pleading for her not to go. Part of her resists. Another part motivates her to leave.

"Don't, he will finish the job. You'll be easy if you pelt straight at them," he warns.

"I've been ready for this, are you kiddin' me? Thirteen years, Castle. Not a second more," she grits. But his fists are clenching, jaw tensed with lids pulled tight as he grumbles her name.

"Kate–! if you–" he breaks to breathe, lashes kissing his cheeks both damp in fear, shaky sighs escaping from distress over his set conviction of what will happen. "If you care about me at all, just don't do this."

"If I care about you?" She pulls back, furthering away in a pained disgust. The space she puts between them brings his attention back to watch and listen. "If I care–you betrayed my trust, _our_ trust, you don't get to cast those terms on me for judgment."

"This is coming from the one who champions verity, and yet lied for a year–"

"Stop. I'm not doin' this again. I thought you were done with me–"

"Yeah, and I sure as hell believed it too," he bites through a scoff. The tone is indignant. Crisp. The words just don't match. "But the reason I'm not done is the reason you're here right now."

There's a break, and the seam of her mouth tears open to speak, but she spurs him to continue by keeping silent. "Why are you under some impression that I expected anything in return? How did that become the deal breaker in what I said, for you to feel the need to lie to me?"

"I don't know–"

"Yes, you do. You may not say it, you may lie to everyone else, but don't you lie to me, Katherine Beckett. I knew a day would come when you'd decide what you want. It's passed. I think now, now you do know, but you're afraid. For the first time, you're afraid of what's true for you...because it's something you _want_ that can be taken away."

Her eyes, a burning brown in this lowlight, avoid his stone slate blues with all her might, shifting everywhere else so as not to risk the contact.

She knows what he's talking about. She maybe even agrees.

So, she doesn't speak.

"I didn't have a lot of truth going for me before we met. I've never known greater truths than in what we've done for our cases together, in working beside you, learning what I have, and knowing who you are. The pinnacle of it all comes down to the simple fact that I love you."

She lacks the strength to hold her tears back anymore. So they flow. They bleed out with no regard of where they'll fall, plunging down to be lost in the shadows.

Clumping the ashes.

"And yeah, maybe you weren't ready to hear those words then," he continues. "Maybe, that was the last thing you needed to hear. But the last thing you needed at nineteen was for your mother to die, to be stolen away by the mindless, cruel twist of a knife. The last thing you needed was for your father to be consumed whole by his drinking, for you to become the caretaker of the family while piecing your life back together. You didn't need to become a cop, to learn to serve the truth, to guard your life with it, to make an oath to protect it. But it happened. All of it, the good and the bad, _happened_. Just like us. How we became us, how I fell in love with you. It's not always a choice. We aren't geared to fight any of it, to alter the outcome. For someone who's been through all that you have, I'm amazed you can't see that."

Oh, but she does. She sees it.

That is what's killing her.

A pause lingers far too long, and she's thankful to reside far enough within the shadows that he can't count her droplets of anguish, but the tremble in her voice gives away her condition. "I'm just trying to get through...all of this, Castle. I needed time. It's not personal."

"And that's exactly the problem, Kate. You...you're the most remarkable, maddening, challenging...frustrating person I've ever met. And you dedicate yourself to loneliness because you've got no clue what you deserve. It's not your fault. It's your life, all you know, the relationship you rely on because it's beaten out the rest. It's helped you survive. But you forget that's not the only choice here."

 _Yes_ , she admits, _but it's the easier way._

A phone call saves her ten seconds later, forcing her out of the hole to access better signal. She keeps her sight on him as she moves, but his doesn't follow her exit. Resurfacing from the rubble, she regrets it once the brisk air fills her lungs, a grating rawness in each drag for oxygen. It makes her question whether or not to go back down, to say what she wants provoked from the guilt of walking away again, but the phone call continues to distract, filling the need for an excuse to leave.

Decision made.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: "Http" : / / bunysliper . tumblr . "Com" / post / 130697768166 / reviews-talk-about-the-fanfic

(Remove the spaces, remove quotes)

I'm just gonna leave this here. There's also a guide if you're unsure how to use the "back" button. Highly recommend some of you read both. :)

* * *

The more distance she lays down between her and the building collapse, from Castle, the more she wants to return. She's turned away, and in her silence she can't reason why.

 _Go back. Why did you leave?_

 _You love him. Go **back**._

She mumbles under her breath cursing herself all the way back to the precinct to turn the car around, but despite every cry her heart makes to her as she continues on, her grip grows tighter around the wheel blanching her hand in regret and frustration. It's not until she reunites with the boys that she can find some means to justify her walking out, the purpose of everything she's worked toward in her mother's case more palpable than ever.

They have a name.

Her boys, her clever boys, ease her up with news when she arrives, an investigation open on Cole Maddox waiting for her. Espo and Ryan have narrowed down the guy after hours of combing through car rental records off a lead from the video. A keychain. She's impressed, grateful. It's also progress. She's relieved.

But she's screaming her lungs out inside, the pain of what she's done singeing the walls of her heart while trying to persevere through this damn case.

"Any luck on the other guy?"

None.

In compensation, they get a hit tracking the car courtesy of the rental company's implanted GPS, finding its coordinates parked at a low profile hotel on the east side where Maddox must've been staying. Prepping to storm the place, Beckett keeps her approach as before. They're on their own.

"Me and Espo will go, I want you to stay behind and see if he moves," she orders Ryan as she strides toward the door of the workroom.

"Whoa–guys," he replies with hands reaching out for them. "No. Wait. You need back up, you don't know what you're aiming at here."

"I know exactly what I'm aimed at, Ryan, you know what these guys are responsible for–"

"Right, and one of them disappeared into the ether after ripping into your chest with a bullet from hundreds of yards away. I know why you're upset, you have every right to to be, and you want them to answer. But Beckett...you do this right. Put a team on that car and pursue this guy with men behind you."

She considers his words for a moment, but Espo's dismissal of his concerns permit them to dart out. "We'll be fine, bro."

Nodding to her, she steals a last glance at Ryan who's narrowed his face between walls of discomfort and disapproval, watching as they leave the room to find the shooter.

Cole Maddox.

Even if it's a cover ID, he has a name.

The asshole has a name she can touch with her tongue, gnashing between her teeth to rip it apart.

 _Cole Maddox_.

It nearly consumes her on the way to the hotel, but her concentration falters when images of Castle flash intermittently, interrupting the pattern of her theorizing. She struggles to shake it off, the mental imprint of him pinned in the collapse too stubborn to leave her, but relief gives for only a few seconds, even once they arrive at the hotel. She gets a break when the manager agrees to show them to the room, and they proceed to storm it with postured guns, eyes alert, rummaging through the belongings of Montgomery on the table.

Time spends faster than they work as they flip and glean over documents, nothing consolidating from the lines they read off the papers. "What the hell were they looking for," she asks, lifting files and folders off the scattered piles. Noting the album under the mess, she amends her question. "Or who."

Thumbing through each page, she studies for any anomaly, and the moment she realizes it's Roy and Evelyn's wedding, she spots the missing picture.

Someone who knew Montgomery.

Montgomery's friend?

He sent a package to a friend.

 _To keep you safe_.

"There's another player we've neglected to address," her voice grates with a snort, showing Espo the empty space on the card stock.

"Who is it?"

"Well that's none of your concern really."

Both whip around to Maddox, his hands immediately soaring to beat on Espo, a struggle that ends with a blunder to the detective's head rendering him unconscious before going after Beckett. It's a battle of jabs and kicks, tapping vital areas for a takedown, but Maddox evades her grip to make a run for the roof.

She bolts after him bearing gun first to lead as she emerges on the rooftop, winded from the blow she took. Panting, she scopes the area, careful to track any sound or movements.

As she circles, he flies out and hurls toward her, kicking away the gun to force hands-on combat, throwing blows, blocking hits, knocking each other off their feet.

His fist hooks her stomach, a stab, forcing her to keel over onto her knees wheezing as he answers his phone and trains his gun on her.

"What's the update? He out? Off to the hospital now?"

Her head lifts, a glare frozen in her face as she grumbles out a word. "Who," she says, a question never forming in her tone.

The curve of his lips.

What a dirty smile.

She charges forward.

Her chest collides with his aimed gun and she grunts, the barrel measuring the only distance she keeps between their bodies. It's safe though, for both their sakes. Her ears strain, heated, hanging onto any discernible word as the voice distorts through the speaker of the phone.

Useless noise.

"Easy now, Kate," Maddox patronizes while hanging up. "We wouldn't want a repeat of what happened last time we met, do we?"

"I wouldn't exactly call that a meeting. More like a cheap shot. Not the way I would've done the job," she says. His grip is unnervingly steady, the gun so daring on her chest. "I don't care how good of a shot you are. You need a sure kill, you shoot twice."

"You wanna talk about failures, walk me through how long it took you to find me."

"I wouldn't have to find you if I had just died." She can hit him for hours, but this isn't the conversation she wants. It leads to no truth. So she answers again before he can. " _You_ detonated."

"Mr. Castle wasn't supposed to be a victim. In light of his communication with Mr. Smith, however, I must reconsider his uses. He's proven a valuable tool in helping us locate the man we actually want."

"He doesn't know anything," she argues, the threat simmering between her teeth. His brow hitches at her attitude, pressing the gun deeper into her, her skin feeling the pinch. It's a reminder, a reminder of who's actually in control.

"Maybe. Or, he knows more than you realize. He did make it to that building on his own, right? Either way we need to exercise some interrogation techniques, to see what he really knows. It's beyond your...capacity, Detective, so we won't be needing you to consult. We may just have you watch." Her lurch forward threatens him enough to twitch, an absence of peace replaced with a tamed rage flickering in her eyes. "I'd admonish you to really think that through given your position."

 _Take it easy, Kate. You've got this._

Her lids shut.

 _She's not my partner. You are._

Castle.

His words...he's behind her, coaching, keeping her steady. Right now. He has to be.

 _Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me_.

Shit. If he could be here...if she could be there...

 _Kate._

 _I love you._

 _I love you, Kate._

His voice caresses her heart, the touch embracing her, eyes watering when they open at this entreatment to stay alive, to remain unharmed. It grants her the strength to expend in taking back control.

 _Do this for him._

"You're not gonna kill me," she says, a rolling thunder lining the breath upholding her words.

"Why's that, Kate?" he says, cocking his head.

"Your aim one year ago was to kill me. But here I am. How does that feel? How does it feel to know just how close you were? They say my heart stopped. Should've been dead. Yet here we are again, with your bullet inches from where it needs to be. Where it should've been," she daunts, but it's unfamiliar. It resembles nothing like interrogation, in the face of suspects. The might blossoms into bravery in her chest, a forceful beat of life inside banging the rim of the barrel sitting comfortably on her warming flesh.

Tears collect at the corners where her lids meet, gliding through the sweat clinging to her cheeks, but she makes no change in her advance, voice full, commanding. "You won't do it. Not now that there's evidence floating around out there. You know the second you unload this gun, that file will move, and it will go public, whether from Smith or Castle. Bottom line? _Whomever_ it is you're serving, the son-of-a-bitch wants me alive. That's why your finger isn't on the _damn trigger._ "

His smirk fades, stolen away by hers slowly forming. Still, he tries to save face. "Make no mistake, the one I answer to wants you dead." His tone makes up for the softened expression, but she's unconvinced.

"But not today," she taunts, grabbing the barrel and shoving it away from her chest. "Your boss isn't ready to give up the game yet."

"There are other ways to kill a person, you know," he rushes. "My men are standing by. They know exactly where to find Mr. Castle."

The door to the roof bursts open just as she manages a breath, a swat team led by Ryan prowling through with care before discovering them, starting to holler for Maddox to lower the weapon who instead stills in his place, a threat glimmering in the swell of his pupils as he maintains them solely on her.

"I said lower your weapon–!" Ryan barks, but she cuts him dry.

"Ryan!" Without a turn of her head her hand swings out beside her, stiff in the air to urge the men to stop. All shuffling ceases as she holds her gaze on Maddox. She can't help it, but it's some kind of pleading to him that falls out of her; she has to try. "Get him out of the crosshairs. He doesn't belong there, it's not his place."

"He and I don't get to decide."

Lips pursing, her nails claw into her bandaged hand, tensing at her side as she debates for as long as she's able to prolong the fowl instruction that escapes in her last pulse of power. It's a bridge to cross. She can't undo this. She can't retract the trigger. There's an understanding of what to do, and she curses herself.

It's not right. It's not wrong.

It is her choice.

"Let him go," she says through clenched teeth. There's a pause, the group behind her uncertain whom she's addressing. Ryan's sharp to catch it.

"Beckett–"

Her hand raises higher when she turns her head, the resolve in it solemn even as she blinks back tears. "Detective Ryan. Stand down."

He gulps, a reply that suffices, allowing her to turn back to Maddox now dashing off towards the building's piping scaling down to the next balcony. She steels herself as quickly as she can, turning to face the squad and walk out.

"It wasn't him," she dismisses, strutting past them. There's a firmness she keeps in her look on Ryan and he catches it, accepts it. For now. He accepts the lie.

But he fails to relay what's waiting for her in the lobby.

Hell's Gates.

–

The heat builds around her, under the sun's rays and under the wrath of Gates. The world disappears into a haze, but the image of Castle emerges through the clearing. He's walking, nearing, arms extending out to her until he too vanishes at the uttering of a single word.

Suspension...Administrative leave. Hm. Well, that sounds about right.

She doesn't care. It's not what she wants.

Resting her gun onto the desk, cradling her badge for a moment before tossing it, she turns away right as it hits the wood. "I resign."

The silence she leaves behind spreads the room. Dead. She's dead, in a certain respect.

Gathering her belongings, she flees. No words. No trace of goodbye. She bows her head, making it out of the precinct the best way she can while doing so.

Where to go?

–

Kneeling down next to her mother's grave encourages every feeling festering in her to spill out, without reservation, without a care to who may witness the shower of pain she lets out into the dirt. Twirling the chain, she flicks the dark stoned ring dangling from it that her mother's finger carried over a decade ago. Recollecting the last three days envelopes her into a well.

A well of demons she's ready to talk to.

The sunlight barely lining the horizon shines upon her, lighting the way but casting shadows in contrast, a play of light and dark angled along the landscape as she counts the sorrows of defeat. It's here she retells the story out loud, confessing apologies in rasps, fighting through blood of her soul her eyes are so terribly worn in giving.

The whisper of the evening air, the hum of the city, it takes her back to those summer nights with her mother. The quick run for Chinese. Indulging in late milkshake trips. It took three visits before she could be persuaded to try strawberry, always opting for vanilla instead. Those nights with Mama had been sweet, in more ways than one. More ways than she could enumerate.

She could use one, even just one night together again right about now.

In that wish, as if to compensate, a conversation exchanged long ago fills her ears, a scene in a coffee shop of the two of them out on their weekly girls night.

 _"Oh it's very hard to lie to yourself, baby girl."_

 _"You think so?"_

 _"It's hard to do it successfully, I should say."_

 _"People do it all the time. I see it, I hear it in what they do. I always thought the easiest person to lie to was yourself."_

 _"We all lie to ourselves, sure. But we always know the truth. We know what's true for us because it's there, screaming its lungs out demanding to be heard. That's where we screw up. We know it's there, we know it's right in front of us...but tell me, how often do we actually listen? How often do we heed that truth presenting itself?"_

 _"I don't know. People just appear so confident. Either that or totally unaware."_

 _"That's what it looks like, right? Love is the best example I can give to make my point. People deny their feelings all the time. We turn our cheeks, we sweep it away, we tuck it deep, always to never be found and acknowledged. We know it exists, a truth, but we avert our eyes as readily as we would looking into the sun. And yes, how dangerous that is sometimes, for something so powerful like it to look into. But how much would we be missing if we refused to ever regard the sun, even when conditions allow it?_

 _"That, my sweet Kate, is just as dangerous. How many sunsets would we miss? How many sunrises? The sunshine in between? There's a natural beauty to truth. Not always, but there is. The first step is willing yourself to look. The second is to accept what you're actually looking at."_

She holds the bridge of her nose, damming up her ducts with the pads of her thumb and two fingers to stop the flow.

 _"And what if I can't see it?"_

 _"You will, goof. Light finds a way, always. No darkness can ever defeat it. Just follow and grip it with your heart. As hard as that may be sometimes, I'm warning you now, you hold onto it."_

Sniffling and smiling, the dull hazel ignites when she sets her gaze to the sky, the slice of the sun dying in the most wonderful of ways, bleeding out in strokes of warm colors that fill to the brim of her heart –

if she isn't filled with more love and truth.

–

 **Four Days Later**

The fourth day is the day.

It's the day she fights to come back to his door, back to him.

She's tried to come to the hospital post-op, but he hasn't seemed willing to see her every day she's visited. Not that she's expected anything, but if he would shun her she at least imagined he'd do it by his own hand. Martha and Alexis have been gracious in turning her away, even as she's kept her persistence.

But the fourth day, that's when the pattern breaks.

Knocking on the door, she bows her head, rocking her feet back and forth in the wiggle space of her shoes as she waits. Her golden-chestnut hair cascades the sides of her face when her sight tends to the floor, looking through the sliver under the door where shadows shuffle around. Martha appears upset, a seemingly maternal command humming through the walls. _Is she chastising him_? It's taking longer than usual. She's patient, though. Unyielding.

She's not going anywhere until they say.

Even the blare of the hospital TV discussing the investigation on the building collapse fails to faze her, passing through her ears without much of her consciousness to filter the developments. "New reports state Senator William Bracken had obtained the old Manifest Solutions property from Charles Haddows prior to this emergency demolition, serving as the grounds to rebuild the St. Agnes Cancer Center–"

The turn of the doorknob cuts the anchorwoman short, revealing an already apologetic Martha gripping onto the door, keeping herself between the gap it makes while open.

"I'm sorry, Katherine," she says shaking her head. "He's just not up for it today."

 _For visitors? Or me?_

"Okay, Martha, thank you. If any of you need anything, you know I'm here."

By now, she would've flashed her best grin and nod in response and closed the door, but peering back inside she proceeds to creep out of the room, twisting the handle behind her.

"He's coming home tonight," she says low. "I've sent Alexis away to properly celebrate her graduation. Shall I make scarce for you two to talk?"

"Oh no, no I–I couldn't. Clearly he doesn't wanna see me so–"

"That wasn't so much of a question needing an answer, dear. You've been relentless. All this waiting, and you give up now?" The words hit, a little of her own mother channeling through. She needs this push. "He'll be on crutches, but he should be able to get around to do what needs to be done. If not, you'll be there?"

"Um...sure." A nod overcomes her for reassurance, sending Martha into a fit of glee.

"Oh good! I'll take off around 7. I'll trust you'll make it soon after."

Welp. If there is any opportunity to back down, her cue has already passed.


	9. Chapter 9

Waiting it out for him she swings in the rain, ascending and descending in through the sheets. It's a baptism, cleansing her of every blot of despair that's stained her for the last few days, weeks – the last year even. Strength has returned to her, enough to take flight, enough to know she can do this.

After days of looking into the sun, basking in and absorbing the truth, she's ready. She's ready to _fly_.

The rain leaves the sky to drench her entirely, but she doesn't mind. It's a healing downpour, exposing her wounds to the air. Above all, the one in her heart. There's a remedy to the water that brings back a sense of whole, coming full circle with the dry days in the sunshine. Acceptance. She's ready to defend that truth through this storm, to prove her resolve, to take her mended scars and plunge heart first into this.

While aware of the danger in everything this means, she knows she has to try. If she doesn't, what she could lose here – it's everything. It's worth _every_ risk.

At 7, this time courage brings her to the loft, but she knocks full raps with more certainty of what she's doing than every moment prior to this one. She's sure that it's here, this is where she's supposed to be, and it's affirmed by the glaring sun staring back at her the second the door opens.

Castle's face straightens, pulling away, turning with his crutches to further himself from where she stands. With an imperceptible nod, she doesn't move.

"You're really bad at this," he sneers, slumping in reliance over his aides.

"Yeah? What's that?" Can he sense her nervousness? He's completely out of it...torn. The exhaustion he wears makes her wince in her own sympathetic pain.

"Walking away," he deadpans, stabbing the grips of each crutch into the floor. "Beckett, what do you want?"

It's the first word in so long that evokes tears from her instantly, flavored as the answer to every question her heart has had to bear in the last thirteen years. "You."

Sauntering towards him, dragging the tips of her shoes, it takes a couple feet to reach his face. He doesn't blink. She inhales his anger, filtering it through her lungs into courage.

"I want you – the guy who opened my door and walked in after everyone else walked out and slammed it shut," she breathes. Precise, she eases tenderly into his face, fingertips light in grazing the edge of his jaw. Responding well at first he eventually tenses up, ripping away his mouth that elicits a gasp from her, a smack of her lips choking out air.

"No," he fights, shying far from her face. "No. What–what happened?"

She struggles to forge the remnants of her best smile, chuckling as the healing storm in her eyes supplies the downpour on her cheeks. "I let him go." He freezes in place. The admission shocks her a bit too, the act more tangible now in saying it aloud. She offers explanation in his failure to reply.

"I let him go. He got away, and I didn't care. I almost died, and all I could think about was you. I just want you." She rubs her fingers into the sides of his neck, supporting it as his head falls down to hang in disagreement.

Tempering shallow intakes of air when he averts his stare from her, she leans into his forehead to rest over hers. "I'm sorry, Castle," she says against the shaky breath escaping him, both mouths cracked open to hang in distress. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."

It's a sob gushing out, both trembling into each other with faltering knees. Feeding herself enough fortitude, she presses a kiss to his forehead, trailing down to his temple, his cheek, but reluctant to once again meet his lips – hers, forbearing. She's completely reverent in her hold on him as he tries to escape it, but it's the sincerity breaking apart her voice that weakens his efforts to resist, muscles relaxing more and more. She wants to awaken his love.

"I'm choosing _you_ , Rick."

And so she does.

Stepping back from her grip he abandons his crutches and chucks them to the side in repulsion. There's a crash she can't check because his face sinks into hers, both bodies binding as they fall against the door to slam it shut.

It's primal and lustrous, but it's in the way he holds her that validates her belief in him. Her trust.

Her faith in his love.

Finding each other, they mend, a blend of their heart, soul, and spirit coursing from one to the other in their exchange of ragged breath. He inscribes _I love you_ from her lips and along her neck like it's the only story he's ever known, caring for her more each time her grip tightens, pinning her to leave little room for moving about. She knows she's not going anywhere. She's done her running, and he's let her do it too many times. It's all the mistakes never to repeat again.

Her sighs build up, a tune to his ears that motivates him to hold every bit of her, a living and growing devotion in the energy he spends. She's gasping, consumed by the feel of his complete embrace, overtaking her mouth, drinking her in, sucking out a groan that never reaches the air.

Peeling off her jacket and shirt, he exposes the scar he'd hovered over one year ago, in watching the life drain out as she'd sputtered in agony. The trauma reads too vividly in the contraction of his pupil – hard blinks to bat away the familiar position as he supports her neck, possibly triggering the image of her dying beneath him – cold tears leaking out his darkened eyes, the whole of him mirroring his expression on that day. It's a pause that lives far too long, so she acts on it knowing he can't return on his own.

Helping him back to this moment, this togetherness, her hands rake over his scalp in a passion that cries for his complete presence, to be with her, one with her. Imploring him, she uses his sentiment to counter the memory, a supplication to reel him back to her.

"Stay with me, Castle," she whispers. "Don't go. I'm here. Stay with me, please."

It's a reflex as he presses a kiss to her battle scar, replacing it after with an open palm splayed over to assure her heart. She lays hers fingers on his, with a kiss to unite their faces, both of them soothing every wound they bare to the other now. They're collapsing into one another.

 _You're safe. He loves you, her heart overjoys, relishing their kiss, knowing it can't be done enough._

 _Yes, and you love him too._

–

"I swear, if you don't get back in this bed–" she says sitting tangled in the sheets, admiring him through the gaps in the bookcase walls as he types away on the computer, hunched over at the desk. _So fucking adorable._ "What're you doin'?"

Frank Sinatra answers her when his voice bellows out of the speakers, serenading them a wonderful tune of _I've Got You Under My Skin_.

"Keep reading," he says through the shelves.

"We have to change your bandages," she scolds. "Your mom asked me to watch over you, not watch you run naked around the loft."

"You can't do both?" he says as he peers in the doorway. "After you read. Keep going." She forces her focus back to the paper lying on the bed, but from her peripherals she guesses it's a hair too early. He's only dressed in a robe returning to the room, carefully jiving around as he enters with a brow cocked in wait, easing only when a smile beams off her face. She hides it, half bashful as her head bows in a snicker at him.

"You're making it impossible to finish this, you realize that right?"

"You're just easily distracted," he teases. "Start over then."

In pursing her lips she's actually fighting back another smile, holding onto it as her fingers curl around the paper when she begins again. " _'There is a universal truth we all have to face whether we want to or not: everything eventually ends. As much as I've looked forward to this day, I've always disliked endings. Last day of summer, the final chapter of a great book, parting ways with a close friend. But endings are inevitable. Leaves fall, you close the book. You say goodbye.'_ You're sure she's your daughter?" As she lets go of a laugh he joins her, sliding onto the floor with his back to the bed, listening to her speak on while she fingers through his hair.

" _'Today is one of those days for us. Today we say goodbye to everything that was familiar, everything that was comfortable. We're moving on. But just because we're leaving, and that hurts, there's some people who are so much a part of us, they'll be with us no matter what.'_ " Oh. Her voice dwindles down, terribly soft as she finishes. " _'They are...our solid ground. Our North Star. And the small clear voices in our hearts...that will be with us. Always.'_ "

"Now tell me that doesn't wanna make you cry," he says climbing onto the bed. After he grabs the new wrap and wipes rested on the side table, she swaps the speech for them and sits parallel to his thigh with the calf extended and elevated over her folded leg. Leaning him back against the headboard with the support of all the pillows, she begins to tend the wound.

"It was...beautiful. It is," she responds finally, careful in unfurling the gauze. Swallowing hard, the subsequent thought lacks fullness in her voice. "Alexis is incredible, Castle. You should be proud. I just..." The reveal of the cut takes her words away that she replaces with a long exhale. "I just wish you were there."

It's a pained grin she wears, wondering what it must've been like that night of her graduation, for all of them. The ideas run rampant in her mind, fluster her, shaking her head in a fight to cast them away. There's no effect. She only pushes on to clean his calf. He leans forward to comment and inject a softer tone, but a spot she swipes sends him into a spasm. Freeing one hand, she reaches behind and holds the back of his head encouraging him to calm.

"I know it hurts, but don't fight it. It'll make it worse – just ride it out," she mutters. Dumping his face into the nape of her neck the pain alleviates indicated by the release of his breath along her flesh, her lids shut in response at the touch. He's gorgeously warm. Even if she's providing him solace here, the weight of him is so safe.

"You're good at this," he heaves out. "Are you moonlighting as a nurse? No. Naughty nurse?" He's laughing. Good. She can continue.

"I've just spent a lot of time...dealing with wounds," she says, her tongue lingering over the thought.

Finishing up, she smoothes over the bandages. It takes her a while to turn from them, but he pulls her back to lay on his chest to take the chance and alleviate her pains.

"I do too," he says after a bit, stroking her arms. His embrace wraps across her chest, covering her scar with his splayed hand. She clutches his grip in return as the hum of his voice calms the waters. "I wish so-so badly I was there. But you know what? In spirit, I was. She knows that. I'm a part of her as much as she's a part of me...how else could she have written that great of a speech?"

Contriving a smile she presses it into his arm, but he tilts her head back to melt it away with a kiss, baiting her to follow him up and off the bed. It's a constant motion with him. Always has been. Very difficult to stop this momentum, order to chaos.

Oh, but it's so beautiful with him, and if she'll choose anyone to go through it with her...well.

"Your leg," she chides, serving as the resistance. As much as she loves dancing, with him especially, in the moment his expense holds more weight. She fights him for as long as she can, but he pulls her arm along anyway.

"Come on. This is the best I've felt in _days_. Plus...I heard no complaints earlier when we...in fact I heard a lot of–" she covers his mouth with her fingers, shaking her head with a shrunken grin.

Both unable to part their gaze, he goes to take the bedsheet, wrapping her snug into some makeshift dress while curling his arms around her to lead a lazy sway at the foot of the bed. Her arms sling around his neck, she limp in his as they swing, rocking side to side with Sinatra's lull. A blissful haze drapes over her face, and she can fall asleep wrapped in him like he's the bed she will sleep in for the rest of her life, but all her thoughts compile, culminating until thin streams cut down her cheeks.

"Hey–hey–what's that about?" he says, tipping her chin up. The pad of his thumb smears the wetness away, tracing the curve of her cheek after as she gathers her response. God it's lame, and it's a downer because this moment is too good...but she muses on the wounds.

"How did you do it?" she says, awe heavy over her voice, meek and fragile.

"Do what?"

"How did...how did you manage to watch me die?"

Oh. He's grinning, but it's not the kind she likes.

"I didn't," he confesses. "Far from it. It killed me. Even now it does to think about how I held you. How you looked. It's a nightmare I know I'll never let go of. But I couldn't bring myself to leave you either, no matter how painful it was." A couple beats pass, but she keeps quiet. "Why?"

Expelling a sigh, it cleanses her throat of whatever tremble sticks there. "For hours, I didn't know if you were alive. Hours. I'm not sure what's worse – seeing it happen or not knowing if it has."

"You know, either one of us dying is pretty much awful on both accounts," he concludes, trying for a smile. Her face nestles into his neck, resting on his collarbone so her cheeks rise and fall with his chest. He's alive. Damn it, he's alive. He's alive, and she's here with him.

"I want this you know," she mumbles over his skin, the scent of her residing there where she'd smudged her own seals of love. "I want us. You." He stops their steps for her tone, waiting for some kind of explanation. "This...I want you, do you understand that?" she continues. "I don't want to make a mistake of miscommunication or–"

"I understand," he says through a few chuckles. "We don't need to worry about that. We just need one thing. The truth...from both of us. That's all."

The truth.

And what is the truth?

"You wanna know?" she baits, sighing as one set of fingers threads into the locks of his hair at the back of his head. She holds her anchor and watches the dirt settle in the water, reaching towards the depths with a steady hand and eyes open. She's gotta give it up. All of it. "When the walls came down, it was supposed to be you. There, with me. I...knew it then as much as now. All year. But I didn't listen, I didn't listen to the truth. I shut it out to lick my scratches clean in the dark because trying to heal seemed like the thing to do on my own, in private. Not for anyone to see the ugly that comes with it."

"You licked your cuts, huh?" he jokes. It coaxes a smirk from her, but she bites it back as he speaks on. "You had to take care of yourself, and by yourself. Just like you always have." He's being kind. She knows better.

"Yeah, yeah I guess. But you were there. You were. You flew next to me through the ugly, and the wonderful, and you have to know that I'm thankful for that even if I'm only saying it now. Even if it seemed like I pushed away at–"

"You don't need to explain–"

"Rick, just – please. I'm not trying to justify, and I'm not giving excuses. I'm telling you the truth because you deserve to hear it. You've waited too long." Her hands cradle his neck, thumbs taking turns rubbing circles as she harvests the worries and thoughts buried away under the water. Coming clean is bittersweet, but the pulse in his veins resonates strongly and that, _that_ wills her to keep going.

"I thought it was...totally worth not admitting that I knew. I thought living in guilt, with that lie, it would ultimately come down to protecting you. Same as you did for me. And when you started to pull away, I couldn't accept that it was because you knew what was goin' on. I suppressed every instinct berating me to wake up, ignoring it for as long as possible."

"It's hard to really lie to yourself," he says. Her gut relaxes, and any tension still lingering inside uncoils.

 _It's him, isn't it?_

"Yeah. It is. Especially about the things you want." There's contact here, golden halos lining the light of her irises that she shines into the heaven of his eyes, determined to not mislead or mistake him. She's freer now, full with her words and the reaction she's getting. He's not running.

"I should've told you..." he trails off.

"Castle."

"Beckett," he mimics her. A pause hangs for a moment. "What changed your mind?"

"About what?"

"Putting your mother's case to rest...waiting...the wall...I mean. Where are you at with this–"

"I've been working on that, actually. Therapy it's...it's helped." His brows lift. "Yep. Brick by brick."

"You mean, you went back after your psych evaluation?"

"I did. Sessions every now and again. I didn't wanna make excuses. From the start, I knew that I couldn't go anywhere without it. I learned that being away at my dad's cabin."

"So it's helped? Is...is the wall gone?"

"Yes and no," she says, a soft grin carved out. "A part of it is still there. I think it always will be, a part of who I am. It's not all of me, though. And I'm not waiting to crumble before I let you in. You've been scaling the walls, dangerously well, for much too long. Don't you think?"

He tries to mirror her joy, but she notes the confidence lacking in his effort. She slumps over his visible grief, questioning it with a hard look. He clarifies with words. "I never realized what it was like. You know, after the shooting. What you said before. I had a good idea, but you just..."

"What?"

"Your...strength. After everything, I never questioned it, never...entertained that you were feeling that broken. I know a smile can hide things away, but, really. Yours never wavered much. You know I bring that cup of coffee, every day, just so I can see that smile on your face? It's always been my indicator. I wish...I wish I'd known how much you were actually suffering. Maybe I did know and I just couldn't admit it. I should've put the story together, I should've...done more. I should've told you."

He shakes his head, disappointment slapping both cheeks, but her fingertips hook his jaw to lift him up to level with her face. His brows draw together in remorse, shutting his eyes, and a beat in her chest falters in its previous zeal, weak at the tint of grief coloring him. There has to be a way to lift this from his shoulders. "Hey. Don't punish yourself for this. I kept you in the dark too. It's not your fault you didn't know."

"You're my partner," he declares after a breath as if it ends the argument altogether, the most obvious answer. It does. It is.

And she won't argue with the truth.

"Partners," she sighs in agreement and relief.

"Partners that have a bad habit of protecting one another and thinking they know what's best."

"Hmm," she hums, I think when you're working so heavily with love, the nature of it, you're gonna struggle with that."

Her answer lifts a smirk along his lips.

 _Of course I love you._

Guiding her to the bed and onto her back, he tucks her underneath him in an hold that secures her into every curve of his body. Forearms planted beside her shoulders, propping him up over her, he dabs his lips on her forehead just before stamping a kiss, resting his head there as he takes her in. Her heart swells, a helpless smile overtaking her mouth as both hands spread at the base of his neck.

Oh _God_ , does she love him.

"I'm sorry," he shakes his head again, the flop of his hair tickling her when he does it. "I wish I could take it back. I wish–I'd give–" he stops to lift his head and gaze down again, his hand sweeping her forehead and over her hair repeatedly.

"Shh, okay?" she says brushing the back of her fingers over his lips and jaw. "Every bit of this made me stronger. To keep goin' so I could be here, right now. I'm not looking at what's happened, what we've done. I'm looking at you because you're here. I'm looking at you because that's all I want. Just you."

Ambivalence paints across his face, satisfaction and peace falling just short behind. So she reaches for him, her touch smoothing over to encouraging him to relax, but his lids wield shut instead.

"You're sure," he doubts, the uneasiness enduring. She quenches it with fire...a sea of flames blazing between them.

"You're my partner. Together we're...more."

 _I'm more than who I am._

 _You're more to me than what you've ever been._

 _More than just surviving._

 _We are more._

God. Does she love him. No, it's not a question. Not anymore. It's a blooming truth inside her rejoicing heart. "So – accept that fact, and make love to me, again. Right now."

Whatever mistakes they've made, however they've wronged each other, they are more than whatever those may be. They are more than what they've done.

They are each other's choice.

And they are bound by it.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for joining me on this journey. The 10th chapter is an M-rated insert and therefore will be published separately, so keep an eye out for that if you're interested. To every single reader, even for those who hated it, thank you. Publicity is publicity. For you reviewers, you have my endless gratitude. Every message means so much, because you took that extra time to give back.

Another special thanks to my betas - R for your encouraging words and confidence in me that gave me strength to publish; and to A especially, for despite your busy schedule in school and work and personal life (this rockstar even beta'd on vacation like wow I love you) you helped me craft a story I can say I am actually proud of. Indebted to you both.

Until next time.


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